Midnight Scandals (34 page)

“So if Mrs. Fitzwilliam had any regrets, 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.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks. The strangest feeling overtook him. It was a few seconds before he realized that he had a lump in his throat.

“You did say a proper goodbye to him,” he told her. “He went to his rest knowing that he had the love of his wife and children. It would have been more than good enough for me.”

Her lips parted in a slow smile, even as another drop of tear made its way down her cheek. “Thank you.”

He touched his thumb to her cheek, wiping away her tears. Then, to his shock, he realized she was doing the same to him: The tears that had eluded him all these years were falling freely.

And through his tears, she was as beautiful as a dream.

Almost without thinking, he pulled her to him and kissed her.

I
T WAS A SWEET KISS
, almost like a whispered “thank you” in the ear, a squeeze of the hand, or an umbrella held out in a downpour.

Sweet and brief.

When they pulled apart, Mr. Fitzwilliam did not apologize or explain himself—he had done exactly what he meant to, it seemed, and no words were needed. For a few seconds, they existed in perfect camaraderie, her hand on his cheek, and his hand on hers, two friends who had shared the most intimate details of the heart.

And she did not mistake him for Fitz in the least.

Then all the norms of etiquette and decorum began pressing in. Isabelle dropped her hand and drew back into her seat. He, too, looked as if he was at a loss for words.

She cast around for something to say, “Do you carry a picture of Mrs. Fitzwilliam with you, by some chance?”

He pulled out his pocket watch. It had a hidden compartment that held a small photograph of a pretty, demure-looking young lady. In return, she opened the locket she wore around her neck to show him a photograph of her entire family, taken six months before she became widowed.

“Was Mrs. Fitzwilliam as decorous as her image would like me to believe?”

“Ha! Mrs. Fitzwilliam lived to belie her image. Magnificent mustache on Captain Englewood, by the way.”

She smiled. “Ridiculously so, isn’t it? I stepped on his foot twice the first time we danced because I kept staring at the mustache.”

Dear Lawrence had grown so conscious of it that he’d shaved off the moustache entirely before he came to call on her the next day and she had not recognized him without it.

“Are you sure you are not blaming this magnificent moustache for your own clumsiness? Perhaps you are naturally mistake-prone.”

“I will have you know, sir, that I am light-footed and graceful, and never has a more elegant figure graced a dance floor.” She rested her head against the back of the chair and sighed. “I miss dancing. It has been so long since I last danced.”

She missed the crowd, the excitement, the sensation of being young.

He rose from his chair. “Then let us dance.”

She sat up straight. “Here?”

The room was not large, and there were too many pieces of furniture.

“There is a terrace in the back. Come, the moon is rising.”

Dancing, the two of them pressed together. She had not forgotten what he felt like in a heated embrace: a big, strong man, fully aroused. She was hot in the back of her throat—and everywhere else too, it seemed.

“What about music?”

“I will provide the music,” he said, gathering the bottle and the wineglasses. “But do take a wrapper. It will be chilly outside.”

“Won’t we be seen?”

“One would have to be standing directly at the gate, peering in. It is late enough that no one respectable would be out walking and anyone driving would be unable to see out the window.”

He held out his hand. She placed her fingers in his, but she still hesitated. “Do
you
miss dancing, Mr. Fitzwilliam?”

“I miss—I miss not forcing myself to have a good time.” He smiled ruefully. “Does that make any sense?”

It made perfect sense: Only a man who had disguised his heartache with gaiety would have found anything remarkable in her naked pain.

“Then let us dance,” she said, rising.

T
HE TERRACE, ISABELLE HAD BEEN TOLD
by the estate agent, had been refurbished with limestone quarried from the Mendip Hills. Low guard rails of wrought iron, with motifs of vine and grapes, surrounded the terrace. A short flight of stairs—only two steps—led down to the rear garden where an unusually large rowan tree stood, its leaves glistening in the moonlight.

It was the sort of tree upon the branches of which young lovers stole kisses, then later carved their initials into the bark to commemorate the sweetness of first love. She smiled a little, remembering an enormous oak at home, under which her sister and the young man she would eventually marry used to sit on a picnic blanket and read aloud to each other from a book of poetry.

Mr. Fitzwilliam hummed a few opening bars of
The Blue Danube,
then swept her into the first turn. She sucked in a breath at the sensation: She felt almost…weightless.

As a girl she’d burned with excitement at being alive, but then she’d changed. Throughout her marriage, she’d dreaded any news of unrest and upheaval—she wanted her husband to be a peacetime soldier and only a peacetime soldier. Instead of exploring the streets of India, she’d stayed behind the walls of the cantonment. And even there, the earlier version of herself would have wanted to be a leader of society, organizing functions and events, taking the newly arriving ladies under her wings. But she never did much more than what civility and reciprocity demanded, preferring to only look after her own family.

Fitz’s wife had once reminded her that all had not been lost, that she had gone on to have a devoted husband and two beautiful children. Isabelle had answered flatly that it had not been the same. That nothing could approach the perfect, unmarred happiness she’d known with Fitz.

It had not been a verdict on her husband or her marriage, but on the person she had become, one who approached life and joy, especially joy, with fear, always afraid that moments of lightness and laughter were but prepayment for some future devastation. It had been one of the reasons she’d latched on so tightly to the idea of making a life with Fitz, because she wanted to return to her old self, the one who lived and loved with zest and abandon, and she’d believed him the only possible path back.

Yet here she was, dancing as if she were flying.

“You are right,” said Mr. Fitzwilliam in her ear. “You
are
wonderfully nimble on your feet.”

She shivered from the nearness of his lips. She was alive, as she hadn’t been for very long. What a terrifying yet enthralling feeling—electric, like the sensation of his breath brushing her skin. She inhaled his scent, spice and musk against the woodsy freshness of the night air.

Moonlight cast the shifting shadows of the rowan tree upon his person. His hand was warm at the small of her back. Her motion and a cool breeze lifted the edges of the short mantle she’d put on over her dressing robe, making her feel as if she’d truly sprouted wings.

They spun in ever wider, ever faster circles. She felt dizzy, an effervescent dizziness, as if she’d been indulging in champagne. On impulse, she threw her head back. The entire sky seemed to revolve around them, the stars streaks of faint gold.

The sound of laughter, she was surprised to realize, was her own, giddy and clear upon the night air.

T
HEY DANCED UNTIL
M
RS.
E
NGLEWOOD
begged, giggling, to sit down, citing her spinning head. Ralston guided her to a swing seat set deeper in the garden. She collapsed into it, still giggling.

He emptied the remainder of the wine into their glasses and sat down next to her.

“Oh, dear,” she said as she accepted her glass, “I am about to turn into a sot.”

She smiled widely as she drank. “Such good wine.” Now she beamed at him. “
Such
good company.”

It was an extraordinarily trusting look. His pulse raced. He wanted to kiss her wine-sweet lips and revel in the taste of her fire. But he only sat down next to her. “Are you warm enough?”

She snuggled closer to him. “Now I am.”

“You
are
tipsy.”

“Maybe not so much tipsy as a little lightheaded and very lighthearted.” She sighed, a sound of plain contentment.

He placed his arm around her shoulders, careful not to touch her otherwise. She burrowed a little more into his person, her hair tickling his neck and ear. More than tickling, actually. The sensations she evoked shot directly toward the middle of his person. He swallowed and kept still.

“Did the missus also enjoy dancing?” she asked.

“The missus would have been the first to inform you that she possessed two left feet. She was, however, an excellent tennis player and regularly had the gentlemen begging for mercy.”

“Did you play a great deal of tennis together?”

“No, I counted myself among those gentlemen who begged for mercy.”

Mrs. Englewood set a hand on his elbow, to keep herself steady while she pulled away to look into his face. Such eyes she had, pools of luminosity even when there was barely enough light to see.

“If she didn’t like to dance, and you were less than accomplished at lawn tennis, then how did you two woo each other?”

“I drew maps for her.”

“What kind of maps?”

“She always enjoyed stories, especially folk tales, fairy tales, and the sort—anything with a talking animal was dear and near to her heart. So instead of writing love letters, I made a detailed map of Alice’s Wonderland.”

She clapped. “How fun.”

And now she gripped onto the back of the swing for balance. He rather wished she would brace against him again.

“Was that the only map you ever made for her?”

He had to remind himself that the eagerness in her voice was not for him, but for a good, entertaining story. “For our honeymoon I drew a large map of a forest, crisscrossed with footpaths. Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s house was in section H5, if memory serves. The gingerbread house in which Hansel and Gretel almost met their doom in B11. The seven dwarfs and their cottage were to be found in P2—so on and so forth.”

She laid a hand against her heart. “That is so, so charming. Do you still have it?”

“No, it was buried with the missus.”

Some of the light went out of her eyes. She closed them briefly and laid her head down on his shoulder again. “Did you feel at the time that you could never bear to see it again?”

“Yes, but now I wish I still had it. She doesn’t need it anymore, but I am beginning to forget the exact phrasing of some of the comments that she’d written in the margins of the map. I thought the words would be seared on my mind forever, but time blurs memories, even those I hadn’t believed would ever fade.”

She ran her hand through his hair, a gesture of sympathy and affection. He just stopped himself from taking her hand and pressing a kiss into the center of her palm.