by Jaima Fixsen
Chapter Twelve
And Keep Your Engagements
Never before had Lady Fairchild let sympathy and guilt urge her to support such an unqualified disaster. No matter how matters eventually settled, there were problems ahead. Still, it was more comfortable involving herself with Alistair’s troubles than examining her own. She sat at her writing desk, nibbling her pen—a habit she’d have to give up, now that she couldn’t blame the damage on anyone else—trying to think of the best way to share the news with her sister. Alistair would write, no doubt, but he wasn’t sharing the entire story. Nor would she. If they were to carry the thing off, the secret must be kept as close as possible.
Unused to keeping secrets from her sister, Georgiana crossed out line after line, struggling against her hesitant pen. She was on her third sheet, the failed attempts torn in pieces, when the front door opened and she heard footsteps on the stairs. William. She’d have to tell him too. Best not put it off.
He was in his study, of course, the sporting papers sticking out of his coat pocket and a stack of letters in his hand. Greeting her with more of his troubling friendliness, he invited her to join him. She took the proffered chair, her eyes flying involuntarily to the watercolor painting above the mantel. It was a view of their gardens at Cordell, and it never failed to heat her blood to a boil—it had been painted by Sophy’s mother. Tightening her lips—it was wisest to remain cool to him as long as he sported trophies like this on his walls—she prepared for battle.
William shifted in his chair. “Perhaps it’s time I updated the furnishings.”
“It’s no concern of mine how you keep your rooms,” she said with a venomous smile.
“I trust you’ve passed a pleasant afternoon?” he asked.
“It was interesting, certainly. Gave me a great deal to think upon. I’ve taken your advice and gotten myself a new project.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. I’d prefer to help him, since I failed signally the last time, but Alistair’s requested my help for another instead. His fiancée, in fact.”
William was a refined man, restricting his astonishment to a fractional lift of his brows.
“He’s in love with her,” she said. Eventually she’d find the right words to deceive her sister, but William knew her too well. She had to give him the truth. She would never approve an engagement to such a pitiful nobody, no matter how lovely of face and form. If Mrs. Morris still controlled her fortune, it would be different, though even then, she would prefer a marriage that wasn’t quite so degrading to her nephew. “He’d marry her himself, if he could—”
“Didn’t you just say they were engaged?” William said, stopping her with a raised hand.
“A ploy, nothing more. He can’t foist her on us without some kind of connection.”
“And the purpose if this is to . . . ?”
She knew she’d end up feeling ridiculous. Too late now for regrets; she had given her word, and was bound to see the thing through. “She’s a widow. Anna Morris. Married to Anthony, of the Warwickshire family. Took her for her money, of course.” William showed no recognition—she didn’t expect him to, since Anthony Morris hadn’t ordered his life around his stables. Most of the time, William didn’t even recognize their neighbors in town, though he knew every farmer, hound and horse for miles back in the country. “She wants her son, and Alistair has taken it upon himself to get him for her.”
“How noble of him.”
Georgiana ignored his flat tone. “She’ll need a husband eventually, and unless I help her to a suitable one, Alistair could very well end up married to her. He’s kept his head so far,” she said, ignoring William’s skeptical eyebrow, “but who knows what he might yet do.”
“I’ve heard of Anna Morris,” William said. “But she hadn’t roused his pity then. I suppose it’s a commendable emotion, but I don’t see why either of us should embroil ourselves in Alistair Beaumaris’s concerns. I’m happy to help his career, but this is—strange. You’re overtired, my dear.”
“You said I might do whatever I pleased,” Georgiana said.
“If it made you happy. Will this meddling accomplish that?”
“I don’t require your permission. I can befriend anyone I like.”
“True. But you never have before.” He glanced at the bundle of letters in his hand. “I’ve just had word from John. Fortis is ready to foal. I’d hoped to be there—I’ve hopes for this one.”
Horses. Always the horses. “I thought you wanted us to spend more time together,” she said.
“I do. But it’s been twenty-seven days since I broached the subject and you haven’t given me an answer. What was I to think?” Before she could answer, he moved again. “So you are accepting my offer?”
No. But she couldn’t say that. “Life would be more pleasant, certainly, if we had fewer quarrels,” she equivocated.
“Is that what we do?” he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting. Quarrel was a mild word for the sterile wasteland between them.
“I don’t like to exaggerate,” she said. “Plenty of married persons disagree from time to time. I daresay—” But she didn’t, floundering into silence. William’s proposed experiment terrified her.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll both stay in town. When do you meet this girl?”
“This evening,” Georgiana said. “She’s coming to dine.”
“I’ll have to send Somerville my regrets,” William said. “Assuming you’re wishful of my company?”
She was, but would prefer he expressed the sentiment in less romantic terms. His presence would be useful. “I’d like your help, if you are willing,” she said carefully.
“Then you have it. Bring on Alistair’s charity. Bring on whatever you like.” He smiled mockingly, tapping his letters with his forefinger. “What kind of husband would I be, denying such a pretty request from my wife?”
Georgiana rose from her chair. “The worst, undoubtably. I’ll see you at dinner.”
*****
“What is the matter between them?” Anna whispered, once she and Alistair had withdrawn to the relative safety of the drawing room sofa. Dinner with Lord and Lady Fairchild was an experience like no other.
“The mood is thicker than usual,” Alistair admitted, reaching over her lap to turn the page of the book of engravings she was pretending to read, letting his hand brush her arm. “Quite a costume,” he said.
Bridling at his criticism of her dress—her mirror didn’t lie, and she’d looked very well in this floating lavender gauze—she followed his eyes down to the book and discovered he was referring to someone else, a woman in baggy trousers and some sort of blouse on top that left her midriff bare. “That would be very chilly,” Anna said, turning the page.
“Not if she were next to me,” answered Alistair.
“Unfortunate then, that I am here instead.”
He laughed, a low chuckle that brushed against her ear. Anna turned the page again, finding a much safer drawing of a man in robes and a turban. She glanced across the room, where Lady Fairchild sat at the pianoforte. She was out of practice, clearly choosing the instrument because she was tired of maintaining the flow of conversation. Her husband stood at her shoulder, turning the pages. Every time he reached forward, her fingers skipped along a little faster, but at least this was easier than watching them speak—that was a regular game of tug of war. Neither one had been dragged through the mud yet, but even she could tell they stood on slippery ground.
“They are old campaigners,” Alistair explained, following Anna’s eyes. “They’ve been at war as long as I can remember. Don’t worry. They are excessively polite about it.”
Anna swallowed. “They don’t like me.” She was used to bearing up under the perceptive glance of her mother, whose affectionate heart blinded her to Anna’s hidden sins. Lady Fairchild was another matter. Anna wasn’t sure if adultery or bourgeois opinions rated worse in Lady Fairchild’s books, but when she felt that lady’s gaze, she
was convinced she’d revealed everything. Lady Fairchild surely knew how she’d watched in trepidation before choosing a fork.
“You’ve lived with worse,” Alistair said.
True, but that didn’t make this any easier.
“Something tells me you didn’t let Morris bully you,” he said.
“After the first year, not much,” she admitted. Though he had won every battle that mattered.
“I’m sure you can cope with my uncle and aunt. Come, it’s late. I should take you home.”
Relieved, she rose from the sofa. All evening she’d been thinking of Henry and the dusty nursery upstairs, emptied now of trunks and storage cases, and void of nearly anything else. The toys and books that had been hers and Richard’s were long gone. Only their little beds remained, and a creaking rocking chair, evidence of the forlorn hopes of her parents that they might have grandchildren (who were allowed to visit them) someday. That nursery furniture, cleaned of years of dust, would only be used for one night. She wished they didn’t have to come back here, where Henry’s noise would rattle through the house, jangling the ornaments on the tables and the sapphires hanging from Lady Fairchild’s ears.
Alistair announced they were leaving, thanked his uncle and aunt, promising to ride with his uncle in the morning. “If you could point me to a good horse, I’d be grateful.”
Lord Fairchild nodded, his brow creasing as he considered this profound problem.
“Until tomorrow,” Lady Fairchild said. “Jenkins assures me that all is ready.”
Anna thanked her, thinking how much better it would be if she and Henry could hide themselves away in her parents’ empty nursery instead. She could take the other bed. They could line Henry’s soldiers along the windowsill, where Richard used put his ships—battered miniature vessels with stained sails. He’d lugged them everywhere, even into bed, unlike Anna who had never brought playthings with her, tucked under her arm. The soft doll sewn by her mother always slept upon the shelf, because—though she’d never admitted it—she’d been afraid of smothering her.
Alistair took her arm after the butler had helped her into her cloak. A moment more and they were outside, closed into a carriage full of heavy night air.
“This hot weather can’t hold forever. There’ll be a storm soon enough,” Alistair said, arranging his cloak around his knees.
Anna felt smothered by her own. She’d hoped escaping into the relative cool outside would lesson the pressure squeezing dew out of her forehead, but she felt sticky as ever. “Think you will be around to see it?” she asked.
“Maybe, if it comes tomorrow. I travel to Portsmouth the day after that, and I’d rather leave before the city is awash in mud.”
It made sense, and she could fault him for nothing, not when he was exerting himself so greatly on her behalf. But she felt wronged nonetheless that he was pitching her into Rushford House and then abandoning her. “I wish you didn’t need to leave so soon,” she said, playing with the edge of her cloak.
“So do I,” he said. “I left Spain hoping I’d never have to return.” He shrugged, as if going back was a minor inconvenience.
“Sounds as if you don’t care for soldiering,” she said, reaching for the carriage strap as they lurched to one side.
“Can’t think of anything I like less,” he said, copying her light tone. A warm beam slid from a streetlamp outside through the carriage window, pushing the shadows from his face. His eyes were bleak. Unaware of her furtive glance, he stared at the cushions opposite. Neither the velvet (dark grey) or the buttons (black) deserved such scrutiny. Anna didn’t know what to say, only that she must speak, quickly, before the silence exposed him even more.
“I wouldn’t venture to understand how hard it must be.”
“Good. You could not.”
“I’ll pray for you,” she offered, hating how feeble it sounded. “Henry too,” she added, though she realized she had no idea what exactly he’d been taught.
Alistair huffed a laugh. “Did you pray for your brother—Richard?”
“Of course.”
“Then do you think it helped?”
She didn’t lean away, though she wanted to when he wounded her with words. A gingery retort danced on her tongue.
“My mother is sure of it,” she answered, finally. “And on the worst days, that’s usually good enough for me.” They endured, and if they felt the loss of Richard’s easy smile, they did not speak of it. Anna dropped her chin, hiding from Alistair’s scrutiny, but saw from the corner of her eye how he lifted his hand, letting it hover beside her cheek. At the last moment, he changed his mind, dropping his hand to his lap.
“Stop fending back tears with your eyelashes,” he said. “I’m sorry. I should know better. My profession makes me churlish sometimes.”
“I can understand why,” she said, blinking to clear her eyes. “I often feel churlish too.”
“Well, you aren’t acting that way in return. You’re very kind. Too good for me—don’t laugh!” he said, cutting off her hmmph of disgust. “I’ll take the prayers, but I’d hoped for your letters, too. To keep up the fiction, you know.”
“I can do that,” she said.
“Good.” He settled deeper into the cushions. “You’re a good woman, Anna.”
He took her hand, lacing her fingers in his own, sparing her the need to reply. The way his thumb slid along her own told her he’d prefer a response that wasn’t words. It felt so good, that little sweep on her hand, warm and soft and tempting. It made her insides quiver, especially when she met his eyes. She wished she wasn’t wearing gloves.
It was delicious to look and touch, but this was how trouble started—a shifting leg, a sideways glance. Even innocuous words sounded risqué when exchanged in breathy whispers. Before you knew it, you were giddy, in a delirium of pressing fingers and greedy mouths, thinking only: I am wanted.
She hadn’t thought about trying to get a child until after the first big slip, when, after letting Mr. Gormley slide his hand too low in a dance, he offered to drive her home. Mr. Gormley was widowed, and forty if he was a day, but handsome enough she’d happily followed him into the hallway, slipping away from the shabby village assembly where Morrises didn’t go. Exultant over his heated kisses, tingling with desire and the heat of revenge, she’d made no protest when they’d fallen together in his carriage, thrashing around each other’s clothing for a brief moment that left them sweaty and panting for breath. Frightened by her intensity, Mr. Gormley hadn’t argued when she asked him to let her out at the bottom of the drive.
Anna returned to herself, skin scalding, as Alistair began walking the fingers of his other hand up the bare skin of her wrist. He was nothing like Mr. Gormley. He was much more dangerous.
Kisses. He just wants kisses. They were all right, surely.
Except he hadn’t kissed her yet. She was sure he intended at least that, but he was taking his time about getting there. Not that she was complaining. His fingertips tripped past the crease of her elbow as delicately as a dancer on tiptoe, moving under her cloak, climbing upwards, over the bit of lace edging the bottom of her sleeve. When he reached bare skin again at her shoulder she was already leaning toward him. She paused, enjoying the warmth of his breath on her cheek—it smelled like cardamon—before letting him close that last half inch to her mouth. Their lips melted together and she held back a sigh, succumbing to her favorite weakness.
She loved kissing. Even the slobbery ones and the demanding mouths that tried to uproot her tongue, though Alistair was neither. He was warm persuasion and gentle insistence, but he kept his word even when she wished he wouldn’t. No wandering hands, no climbing on top of her. Anna slid her hand over his cheek to trace the curve of his ear, resolving to get rid of her gloves.
No you don’t. You know better.
She couldn’t ignore her conscience this time, or, after lurching round a sharp corner, the reminder that this carriage was much the same as Mr. Gormley’s, and therefore to
o dangerous a place for the removal of gloves. With infinite regret, she made her hands relax and drift back into her own space. Her greedy lips didn’t want to stop playing, but Alistair got the signal and slowed, disengaging with a smile.
“I remember. Only kisses,” he said.
Thank goodness she had dignity enough not to sigh. You are not that person, her conscience scolded. And she knew she wasn’t. Not anymore.
If thine eye offend thee . . . . Really, if she cut out and cast off her sinful parts as the bible said, she’d be a pitiful, maimed thing. Eyes, skin, fingers, lips . . . .
This carriage was far too warm, but it didn’t feel like hell at all. If she didn’t stop kissing him though, it would take her there, sure as Wednesday followed Tuesday. She looked at Alistair, who was sober now that the smile had fallen off her face.
“God won’t wink at this,” she mumbled.
His arm slid round her shoulders, comforting, brotherly. The rumble of the wheels rolling over the cobbles filled the silence, punctuated only by an occasional creak from the springs. “Should I apologize? I will if you want, but I’d be lying. I’d do that again in a heartbeat.”
It was silly of her, but his admission made her glad, widening her mouth into a lopsided smile. “Better not. We’ve lies enough already. Best if we don’t take unnecessary chances.”
“No more kisses?”
Was it wrong of her to rejoice that he seemed as forlorn at the prospect as she?
“I didn’t say that. You’ll still be here tomorrow.” It was practically a promise, but for the rest of the drive, she kept her hands clasped primly in her lap.
Chapter Thirteen
Fairy Tales aren't True
One more day and he’d be gone. Still, it was impossible not to float up the stairs after Alistair’s kisses. They were good—more than the usual mind-wiping distraction. She was too fuddled to know if it was his skill (superlative), his looks (arresting), or the newness of this kind of chaste longing, but she drifted into her room, aware of one difference she’d never experienced before: a feeling of serenity, that all would be well. Clearly, she’d been without kisses too long. She was drunk on them, deluded. Anna fished a nightdress out of her clothes press and ascended the last flight of stairs, finding her way by the light of her flickering candle—stubby now, after waiting so long for her return. Her father had left it in the hall for her, along with a note.