She had, it seemed, recovered from her shock. Isabelle’s lips flattened. Ralston set down his tea and rose to stand next to her chair—Mrs. Montrose was no doubt acting out of concern, but she was still distressing her sister.
“This is madness, Isabelle.” Mrs. Montrose’s displeasure was palpable. “Until Mr. Fitzwilliam walked in, I had thought you meant he shared a general resemblance to Fitz: hair color, eye color, build, and so on. But this is worse. This is so much worse than anything I could have imagined. Does this poor man have any idea? Have you not shown him any photographs?”
“I don’t carry a photograph of Fitz with me everywhere I go,” said Isabelle defensively. “Not anymore, in any case.”
“Mrs. Montrose, please do not speak of me as if I am no longer present,” said Ralston. “And please do not attribute any exploitation to Mrs. Englewood’s part. I was given to understand, the moment we met, that I am Lord Fitzhugh’s spitting image. Our friendship developed not because of it, but in spite of it.”
Mrs. Montrose glanced Isabelle’s way, and back at him. “I was also given to understand, sir, though not as soon as I should have been, that you resembled Lord Fitzhugh. But being told is not the same thing as witnessing with my own eyes. I can only imagine, by your nonchalance, that you have yet to meet Lord Fitzhugh?”
“Indeed I have not.”
“I have, sir, many times. And I cannot look upon you without thinking of him in the most visceral manner possible.”
Her vehemence took him by surprise. Isabelle chair scraped against the floor as she shot out of it. He set his hand on her elbow a moment before turning back to Mrs. Montrose. “I understand you have twins, Mrs. Montrose. I have cousins who are twins. I do not mistake my cousins and I am sure you do not mistake your own children.”
“Oh, drat it. Why do the two of you insist on using twins for an analogy? How many times do I have to explain that it is not the same?” Mrs. Montrose stalked to the window. “I can have quadruplets who look exactly like each other and they can all be my children. But Isabelle can only love one man. You are so sure, Mr. Fitzwilliam, that—”
Something below caught her attention. “My goodness gracious,” she whispered.
“What is it?” asked Isabelle immediately.
“It’s Fitz—and his wife. They look like they are about to leave.”
“What?” Isabelle rushed to the window. “Are you—”
She fell silent. Slowly, carefully, she turned her head and glanced at Ralston. It must be Lord Fitzhugh then. Ralston hesitated, but the next moment he was standing before the window, acutely aware of the two women’s attention on him.
Outside the hotel there was more than one party leaving. Porters rushed about with portmanteaus and steamer trunks. Ladies in their bright summer dresses waited in small clusters. A group of gentlemen, a father and his two grown sons, by the looks of it, were engaged in an animated discussion.
There was no sign of anyone who looked remotely like him.
Then his gaze landed on…himself.
It was as if he stood before a mirror, with his reflection acting independently of him. The real him clutched at the windowsill, dumbfounded, while his reflection leaned down and spoke into the ear of a petite, pretty brunette, who laughed behind her fan.
But this is worse. This is so much worse than anything I could have imagined, echoed Mrs. Montrose’s words in his head.
Lord and Lady Fitzhugh climbed into a carriage and drove off, leaving Ralston with a strange hollowness in his chest. He turned away from the window, only to catch sight of himself in a mirror on the wall.
I cannot look upon you without thinking of him in the most visceral manner possible.
Dear God, he could not look upon himself without thinking of Lord Fitzhugh in the most visceral manner possible.
“Mr. Fitzwilliam. Mr. Fitzwilliam,” came an urgent voice. “Ralston.”
He looked blankly at Isabelle.
She was pale and hesitant. “Are you all right?”
No, he was not all right. How could he be? He was but an almost exact replica of a man who was now in love with another woman.
He shook his head to clear it, but it was no use. “Please excuse me, ladies, I’m afraid I must take leave of you. I’m—I’m—”
He gave up trying to think of an excuse, bowed, and walked out of the room.
Chapter Eight
HE LEFT WITHOUT A BACKWARD GLANCE—and with all too swift a gait, as if he would have gladly broken into a sprint had the road outside not teemed with chattering tourists.
Isabelle remained at the window until he disappeared from sight—then she remained some more, rooted in place by disbelief.
“I’m sorry,” said Louise, her arm around Isabelle’s shoulders. “Will you allow me to apologize?”
Isabelle bit her lower lip. “He walked out on his own two feet. It wasn’t your fault.”
“No, I want to apologize for earlier, when I said that you were using him as a copy for what you couldn’t have.”
Isabelle laughed. It was either laughing, or crying. “What changed your mind?”
“If Fitz was the one you still wanted, when we were all at the window, you would have been looking at him. But you had eyes only for Mr. Fitzwilliam. So I was wrong to tell you that you didn’t know your own mind. Forgive me.”
“What’s there to forgive?” Louise only wanted her to not make a mistake she’d regret. And as much as her stubborness had frustrated Isabelle, she could not resent her for it. “You should have seen yourself, like a mother tigress, growling in protectiveness.”
“Mr. Fitzwilliam was protective of you too. He didn’t like it when I was too hard on you.”
Isabelle did not reply. Was it only yesterday that she’d thought happiness as simple a matter as throwing open a window to see the sun outside? The curtains of the window before her were open, the shutters drawn back, the sky beyond wide and blue. But she could not see the sun, only the shadow it cast of the hotel.
The next moment she squared her shoulders. No, she would not be so pessimistic. She could not see the sun because her window faced west, and it would be hours before the sun’s path took it within view. In the meanwhile, light drenched the surrounding hills, reflected from the windows of every passing carriage, and shimmered upon the waters of Windermere.
“He will come back,” said Louise earnestly. “It’s just the shock. Once it wears off he will remember that even twins who resemble each other most fiercely are still separate persons.”
Isabelle snorted. “Since when did you subscribe to the twins analogy?”
“Once I saw how you looked at him.”
She’d looked at him as the man who had promised to brush her hair when it would have turned all white. But he, he hadn’t looked at her at all. Had all but run away.
In the distance she could make out a boy in a sailor suit and a girl in a reddish frock walking alongside a young woman in a brown tailormade—her children, returning from their excursion on the water with their governess. They looked chatty, all three of them, smiling and gesticulating. Hyacinth and Alexander would reach the hotel bursting with discoveries to share.
And she would have to be sure not to cry in front of them. She never had, not even on the day of Lawrence’s funeral. She must not begin now.
“He will be back,” Louise said, patting her on the shoulder. “I promise you he will be back.”
Isabelle blinked back her tears. “I’d better order a tray for the children. Mr. Fitzwilliam will do as he pleases, but my children must eat when they are hungry.”
RALSTON WALKED. WATER, HILLS, TREE-SHADED paths, pink-cheeked tourists returning from their morning hike—everything was a blur to the roiling unrest within. At some point, vaguely realizing the day might not be long enough for him to go all the way around Windermere, he turned around, took the ferry he’d passed on his way, and crossed the ribbon-like lake at its midpoint.
His thoughts kept dragging him
back to the kiss beneath the portico of Doyle’s Grange. The memory of it had always both amused and aroused him. Now, however, he truly understood for the very first time that her need and fervor had been for someone else.
A man cast from the exact same mold as he, but another man nevertheless.
And what of their lovemaking the night before? Her voluptuous climaxes had filled him with both gratitude and pride. But whom had she been embracing, really, when she’d cried out in her moments of pleasure?
At the village nearest the ferry landing, his tongue parched, his head light with hunger, he bought a sandwich and a canteen of water. He ate sitting by himself, staring at the table before him. When he was done, he resumed his walk, despite the protestation of his feet against shoes only meant for the drawing room.
He was no longer famished, or thirsty, but he was tired. He welcomed the fatigue; he welcomed even more the weary quiet of his mind. No more thoughts, no more memories, just a blessed blankness as he pushed himself forward, while leaves rustled overhead and birds sang in the distance.
Isabelle’s hands around his face, her eyes brimming with tears. So if Mrs. Fitzwilliam had any regrets, she told him, her voice urgent, it would be that the rest of her life was too short to spend with you—because that was her heart’s desire, not the Faroe Islands, and not anything else.
The vividness of the recollection stunned him. He could almost believe himself in the midst of it, her fingers warm and strong upon his cheeks.
Isabelle running her hand through his hair, her eyes full of sympathy and affection. Tell me about Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s comments. It will help you remember them better for the future.
He’d barely stopped himself from taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the center of her palm.
Careful, old widower, Isabelle mumbling, as he carried her back up to her room.
And he had gloried in his strength, his ability to take care of her when she most needed it.
These were not interactions she could have had while pretending he was Lord Fitzhugh. Of course not. Little of their entire history, beyond that first kiss, had been about her erstwhile sweetheart.
And when they’d made love, what had they been discussing until the moment they gave in to their desire? The fact that his face was going to cause them much trouble, but that she wouldn’t change a thing, because if he didn’t resemble Fitz, they would not have become friends.
Or lovers. Lovers who should still be together years from now, when her hair had turned white.
He stopped altogether in his tracks, his heart pounding with dismay. What a fool he had been, rushing out like that. What a bigger fool he had been, to ever doubt her sincerity and honesty. And it made him the biggest fool of all to have put miles upon miles between them, so that even after he came to his senses, he was still far away from her.
Too far away.
He swore and began to run.
AS IT TURNED OUT, HE DIDN’T need to run all the way back to Ambleside. At the next jetty he came across there was a small steamboat for hire. He leaped on board, waving all the currency he had on hand.
He returned to his own hotel room first and ordered a bottle of the hotel’s best claret—his groveling would have a better chance of being heard if it was accompanied by a glass of good wine. He also asked for a bouquet of flowers—it would have been better had he gathered the flowers himself, but a man could not both run in panic and think of flowers at the same time.
As he waited for everything to be delivered, he changed into clean clothes, opened his window, and froze. In the gardens behind the Governor, between a bed of white lilies and a sizable cluster of purple acanthus, stood none other than Lord Fitzhugh and his wife, thoroughly engrossed in each other.
This time, Ralston did not feel as if he were looking at his own reflection. Of course Lord Fitzhugh was a different man. Ralston would never look so at Lady Fitzhugh. That kind of tenderness he saved only for his Isabelle.
He ran out of the door, almost knocking over the porter who had come to deliver the wine and the flowers.
As there was no way to soften the jolt, he didn’t try to, but simply came to a stop behind the Fitzhughs. “Lord Fitzhugh, Lady Fitzhugh.”
The Fitzhughs turned around, gaped at him, looked at each other, then gaped at him some more. Lord Fitzhugh was the first to recover his composure. “May I—ah—be of help, sir?”
“My name is Fitzwilliam, my lord. I live not far from Doyle’s Grange—I am Mrs. Englewood’s neighbor.”
Lady Fitzhugh’s jaw dropped. “You wouldn’t be the gentleman we saw speaking to her yesterday afternoon, would you, behind the Lakehead?”
“I was indeed. Mrs. Englewood and I met the last time she was at Doyle’s Grange.” Judging by the Fitzhughs’ expressions, they understood exactly the context of Mrs. Englewood’s prior visit to Doyle’s Grange. “The way I look, you will not be surprised that I caught her attention.”
“No, indeed,” said Lady Fitzhugh, glancing from Ralston to her husband and back.
“To make a long story short, her sister is not in favor of her spending too much time with someone who looks like a replacement. She thinks Isa—Mrs. Englewood is courting future heartache. So this morning Mrs. Englewood arranged for me to meet Mrs. Montrose in person, hoping that I might be able to better persuade the latter.”
“Mrs. Montrose was shocked, I take it?” said Lord Fitzhugh.
“She was, but that was nothing—I don’t mind Mrs. Montrose. But then I happened to see you and Lady Fitzhugh leaving the Lakehead.”
Lady Fitzhugh’s hand came up over her heart. “My goodness. We thought it would be a good idea to change hotels, to not disturb Mrs. Englewood with our presence. We did not mean to cause any trouble.”
“No, please don’t blame yourselves,” Ralston hastened to reassure her. “You are not in the least responsible for how I acted.”
“I hope you did not suspect Mrs. Englewood of actually using you as a substitute,” said Lord Fitzhugh. “She is incapable of that kind of pretense. In fact, she is incapable of any kind of pretense.”
“I am afraid I forgot that entirely when I left in a blaze of theatrics. And now—” He glanced in the direction of the Lakehead, his heart constricting with the disappointment he must have caused her.
“Courage, Mr. Fitzwilliam,” said Lord Fitzhugh. “The course of true love never did run smooth.”
Ralston exhaled. “Then may I ask a favor, sir? May I ask that you come with me, just for a few minutes, so that Mrs. Englewood can see that I have made peace with our resemblance? Your presence would make for a better testimony than my words alone.”
Lord Fitzhugh studied him for a few seconds, then smiled. “It will be my great pleasure, sir.”
ISABELLE STARED AT THE BOTTLE of claret as she trailed her fingers over the bouquet of white lilies and purple acanthus that had been delivered at the same time. They could have come from no one else. Did this mean—she didn’t dare let herself complete the thought.
The sun had begun its descent to the horizon. A golden light suffused the sitting room. She lifted the bottle to the light, turning it this way and that, and watched it sparkle.
A knock came at her door. Her heart raced. Ralston. What would he say to her? What would she say to him?
In the end, she said something she could not have predicted. “Fitz!”
He smiled. “Isabelle.”
She smiled back at him. Dear, old Fitz. She hadn’t been entirely certain before, but now, face to face, she realized they would always remain friends. “Come in. Shall I ring for some—”
Fitz had not come alone. Next to him stood—
“Mr. Fitzwilliam,” she said stiffly.
“Mrs. Englewood,” he returned a soft greeting.
An apologetic one.
Part of her was inwardly running about and screaming at his reappearance; another part of her saw red. She narrowed her eyes, but stepped back and let them in.
“Is Lady
Fitzhugh well?” she asked Fitz, ignoring Ralston, while at the same time being acutely aware of his windswept hair and sun-reddened cheeks—he had been outside all this time.
“She is very well. She sends her regards.” Fitz watched them with restrained amusement.
Ralston hadn’t taken his eyes off her since his return—her anger was beginning to be perforated by a rising giddiness. She continued to ignore him. “I don’t think I’ve ever told you this, Fitz, but my children demolished the honey from Lady Fitzhugh’s lavender fields.”
“She will be delighted to hear that—and you have just assured Hyacinth and Alexander each of a lifetime supply of lavender honey.”
“They will be gorging themselves silly.” She touched her hand to his elbow. “Will you stay a while? Louise is at her bath. I’m sure she would like to see you too.”
“And I her. Lady Fitzhugh and I will gladly call on her tomorrow, but for now—” He glanced at Ralston. “For now Mr. Fitzwilliam would probably like a few minutes of your time. He sought me out, hoping to show you that he is more than comfortable in my presence and most certainly does not see himself as a stand-in of any sort, for anyone.”
“Well, it took him long enough,” she said testily.
Fitz returned a pat on her elbow. “I will see myself out. Lady Fitz is waiting with bated breath to learn how Mr. Fitzwilliam’s apology turns out.”
“If you leave now, then you will not know how the apology turns out.”
“It is a rare and superior man who not only admits his mistakes but seeks actively to make amends. I have every confidence that Mr. Fitzwilliam’s apology will go over very well.”
“Hmm,” said Isabelle.
Fitz laughed softly, kissed her on the cheek, and shook Ralston’s hand. “I shall come bearing jars of honey, next time I call on Doyle’s Grange.”
“CAPITAL FELLOW,” SAID RALSTON.
Before Isabelle could glare at him, the door opened and in came Louise. Her glare was far more awe-inspiring: If Isabelle could throw daggers with a look, then Louise launched broad swords with hers.
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