Sherry Thomas - Ravishing the Heiress

He was leaner than she remembered, warier, his tone quiet. “What may I do for you, Miss Graves?”

Was this how he would always speak to her, with this meticulous, distant politeness? “I have been thinking about what you said the other day. You made me realize that yes, I have been forced into this. I was never given any other choice, never told that there was any other way to justify my existence on this earth but to be the conduit that united the Graves name with a lineage nobler and more ancient.

“It is a stupid goal. But such are the circumstances of our lives that we must hold our noses and proceed, or we shall both be far worse off. With your predecessor, there was no question that I would be expected to produce an heir as soon as possible. But—dare I assume you are not in as much of a hurry to rush headlong into fatherhood?”

He glanced to his left. She did not follow the direction of his gaze but she had no doubt that if she did, she would find the young lady he loved. “You would be correct,” he said. “I have no desire to fill nurseries anytime soon.”

“Neither do I. I do not want to become a mother in the immediate future. And perhaps not even in the intermediate future.”

“So what do you propose? A nonprocreation covenant?” There was a grim humor to his voice, but none in his eyes.

“Something a little more comprehensive: a covenant of freedom.”

He tilted his head; for the first time he appeared interested in the conversation. “What is it?”

“We say our vows and then, until the time comes for the matter of heirs, we live unencumbered—as if we’d never married. Notice I do not say as if you’d never been left the title. I cannot help you there: Unless you find a general willing to tolerate a lord in his ranks, you will not have a career in the army. But in everything else you should do as you wish: travel, enjoy your friends, woo all the ladies you care to. Go to university if it’s what you’d like. There will be no nagging wife to answer to when you come home. No responsibilities; no consequences.”

“And you? What will you do?”

“The same, except for the obvious differences, of course: There are certain things an unmarried girl does not do and I will hold myself to that standard. That aside, I will enjoy being the mistress of my own household. And I will not have to worry about how I will get on with my husband—at least for some years.”

He was silent. In the afternoon sun, his cricket kit was brilliantly white, his person sensationally beautiful.

“Well, what do you think?”

“Sounds tempting. Any catches?”

“None whatsoever.”

“All good things come to an end.” He didn’t sound as if he believed her entirely. “When does this covenant expire?”

She hadn’t thought of a specific time limit, except that it should be long. “How about in six years?”

Six years was outrageous. Even if he halved the length, she should still have enough time to put herself back together again.

“Eight,” said her fiancé.

He’d never touch you if he had the choice.

By now she should have become numb to the humiliation of this marriage, but her heart choked with pain. She squared her shoulders and offered him her hand to shake. “We are agreed, then.”

He glanced down at her outstretched hand. For a moment his impassiveness foundered. His expression turned harsh with rebellion—but only for a moment. The deal was done, the contract signed. He had no choice; what he wanted was besides the point.

When his eyes met hers again, they were quite blank—the gaze of the dead.

“Agreed,” he said, shaking her hand. His voice was equally blank, a wall that concealed his fury. “Thank you.”

She trembled inside. “No need to thank me: I did it for myself.”

A truer word she never spoke.

1896

Thanks to a traffic logjam, by the time Helena and Millie returned from Lady Margaret Dearborn’s at-home tea, there was barely enough time to change before heading out for dinner.

Fitz was waiting for them as they came down the stairs. “You both look lovely.”

Helena could not see anything immediately different about her twin, who must have spoken to his Isabelle for the first time in eight years, but his gaze did linger on his wife longer than usual.

“Thank you, sir,” said Millie. “We must hurry or we will surely be late.”

Her tone was that of an ordinary wife in an ordinary marriage on an ordinary day. Strange that Fitz never seemed to notice how odd it was. Such perpetually neutral responses were unnatural—at least to Helena.

The conversation in the brougham on the way to the Queensberrys’ was also largely ordinary: Society was still curious about their sister Venetia’s elopement with the Duke of Lexington; people bought tinned goods in ever greater quantities; Helena reached an agreement with Miss Evangeline South, whose charming picture books she’d sought hard to publish.

It was only as they turned onto the Queensberrys’ street that Millie asked, as if it were an afterthought, “And how is Mrs. Englewood?”

“She seems well—glad to be back,” said Fitz. Then, after a small pause, “She introduced me to her children.”

At last Helena detected a catch in his voice. Her chest constricted. She remembered his numb despair when he’d given them the news of his imminent wedding. She remembered the tears rolling down Venetia’s cheeks—and her own. She remembered how difficult it had been not to cry in public the next time she’d run into Isabelle.

“They must be good-looking children,” murmured Millie.

Fitz looked out the window. “Yes, they are. Exceptionally so.”

Millie had timed her question perfectly: That precise moment, the brougham stopped before the Queensberry residence and no more was said of Isabelle Pelham Englewood or her children, as they entered the house and greeted the gathered friends and acquaintances.

Much to Helena’s displeasure, Viscount Hastings was also present. Hastings was Fitz’s best friend and the one who had informed her family of Helena’s affair—after he’d swindled a kiss from Helena on the pretense of keeping her secret. His cheeky rationale was that he’d only promised to conceal the identity of her lover, not to hold silent on the affair itself.

Fortunately he had not been seated next to her at dinner—she was not to be trusted with implements that could stab him in the eye when she was exposed to his presence for more than a quarter hour at a time. But after dinner, when the gentlemen rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, he did not wait long before approaching her.

She’d been sharing a chaise longue with Millie and Mrs. Queensberry, who greeted Hastings with great cordiality, then, as if by conspiracy, both rose to mingle elsewhere in the room.

Hastings sat down and braced his arm along the back of the chaise, quite effectively letting it be known he did not want anyone else to join them.

“You look frustrated, Miss Fitzhugh.” He lowered his voice. “Has your bed been empty of late?”

He knew very well she’d been watched more closely than prices on the stock exchange. She couldn’t smuggle a hamster into her bed, let alone a man.

“You look anemic, Hastings,” she said. “Have you been leaving the belles of England breathlessly unsatisfied again?”

He grinned. “Ah, so you know what it is like to be breathlessly unsatisfied. I expected as little from Andrew Martin.”

Her tone was pointed. “As little as you expect from yourself, no doubt.”

He sighed exaggeratedly. “Miss Fitzhugh, you disparage me so, when I’ve only ever sung your praises.”

“Well, we all do what we must,” she said with sweet venom.

He didn’t reply—not in words, at least.

The vast majority of the time, she dismissed him without a second thought. But then he’d gaze upon her with that slight smile about his lips and a hundred dirty thoughts on his mind, and she’d find herself fighting something that came close to being butterflies in her stomach.

He’d rowed for Eton and Oxford and still possessed that powerful rower’s physique. The night he’d confronted her about her affair, when she’d allowed him to press her into a wall and kiss her, she’d felt his strength and muscularity all too clearly.

“I’m looking for a publisher,” he said abruptly.

She had to yank herself out of the memory of their midnight kiss. “I didn’t know you were literate.”

He tsked. “My dear Miss Fitzhugh, were Byron to come back to life today, he’d take a club to his good foot, out of jealousy of my brilliance.”

She had a horrible thought. “Please don’t tell me you write verse.”

“Good gracious, no. I’m a novelist.”

She breathed a sigh of relief. “I do not publish fiction.”

He was undeterred. “Then consider it a memoir.”

“I fail to see what you have done in your life that is worth setting down in print.”

“Did I not mention that it is an erotic novel—or an erotic memoir, as it may be?”

“And you think that’s something suitable for me to publish?”

“Why not? You need books that sell, to subsidize Mr. Martin’s histories.”

“That does not mean I am willing to stamp the name of my firm on pornography.”

He leaned back, a look of mock consternation on his face. “My dear Miss Fitzhugh, everything that arouses you is not pornography.”

Something hot swept over her. Ire, yes—but perhaps not entirely. She leaned in toward him, making sure she dipped her chest enough to give him a straight line of sight down her décolletage, and whispered, “You are wrong, Hastings. It is only pornography that arouses me.”