Page 48 of War of the Wedding Wagers
A single line caught her eye.
“I cannot live without you…”
The corridor remained empty, but suddenly the shadows seemed alive with possibility. These letters could hold the key to everything—Pernilla’s fate, the truth about her William, perhaps even explanations for things happening now.
Lady Pendleton had said her ancestor died young, but what if there was more to the story? What if history wasn’t quite what everyone believed?
Clutching her precious cargo close, Amelia hurried through the darkened corridors to her chamber, the letters seeming to burn against her chest, eager to give up their secrets.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Mrs. Perry wascertainly a Merry Widow. Sir Frederick found her witty asides quite entertaining, and she was easy on the eye, her golden curls artfully arranged to catch the candlelight. Of course, she was flirting quite outrageously, each laugh carefully calibrated, each gesture precisely designed to draw attention to her best features. He must be careful lest he find himself in too deep. He could see she wasn’t above resorting to underhand techniques to get what she wanted—her eyes darted too often to his signet ring, her questions about his estate too pointed to be casual interest.
And another husband was definitely on her agenda. The way she’d positioned herself just so beside him, allowing her silk skirts to brush his leg, left no doubt about that.
In his peripheral vision he saw Miss Fairchild take the stairs, her midnight blue gown making her seem to float in the shadowy stairwell. He’d enjoyed trailing about the castle on their treasure hunt, watching her mind work as she decoded each clue. He’d enjoyed their kiss even more—the softness of her lips, the way she’d melted against him before propriety reasserted itself. But she’d made it clear that while she’d enjoyed it, she regretted it. As if succumbing to pleasure undermined her integrity, as if joy itself were somehow suspect.
Well, of course, Sir Frederick didn’t want to be saddled with a Puritan killjoy for life; one who went into a decline through guiltevery time she experienced pleasure. If she had thrown her heart at Thomas Blackheath whom she revered as the epitome of all that was noble, then she had a most skewed view of nobility. The memory of Blackheath’s perpetually furrowed brow and endless lectures on duty made Frederick’s teeth clench even now.
Blackheath had been a gloomy curmudgeon who had followed orders, even if they ran counter to common sense. He saw duty in black and white, with no room for the hundred shades of gray that made up real life. The man had no capacity for joy.
And if Miss Fairchild aspired to finding a husband in his mold, then both Sir Frederick and she were wasting their time with each other. No more kisses or wondering if things might go anywhere, he told himself, as he flicked another glance at her leaning over the railings. Even as he pretended greater amusement in Mrs. Perry’s latest witticism than was warranted, he couldn’t help noticing how the candlelight caught the elegant line of Miss Fairchild’s throat.
If she looked alone and in need of company, Sir Frederick was not the man to engage her in conversation—which he greatly enjoyed, he had to admit. Their discussions ranged far beyond the usual ballroom fare of weather and who was dancing with whom. But she was not interested in finding a husband and she was not interested in him. She’d made that abundantly clear.
And he didn’t want a Puritan for a wife, as he’d reminded himself just now. Though the way her eyes had sparkled during their treasure hunt had been anything but puritanical…
No. If she’d made clear that she thought him caddish, then let her think it. The pain in his leg was reminder enough of what duty had cost him; he needn’t seek out more suffering in the form of a wife who would forever judge him wanting.
If she couldn’t see past his exterior, then she clearly didn’t have the depths he’d once thought. She was as shallow andone-dimensional as Thomas Blackheath had ever been. Though the memory of her collapsed on stage during charades, showing such raw emotion, suggested otherwise…
After another minute or so laughing at one of Mrs. Perry’s on dits—something cutting about Lady Townsend’s ostrich feathers—he glanced again at the upper floor to find it empty—like his heart. Or rather, emptied of the expectation that had built up there. What had he hoped for? To see her still there, lock eyes with her, and then go up and speak to her? To explain about Waterloo, about Blackheath, about all the things she didn’t understand?
Suddenly, he felt very weary. Utterly, immensely weary, and he knew it was unfair to Mrs. Perry when he offered his excuses so abruptly, telling her that exhaustion had suddenly overcome him.
The bereft look on her face made him feel guilty, but suddenly there was no enjoyment in being amidst the lively company. He just wanted his bed.
*
But sleep didn’tcome easily.
And when the same, familiar, nagging pain in his leg woke him in the early hours of the morning, he knew it would be less tiresome to take himself off to the library than to spend hours tossing and turning in a fruitless attempt to achieve the respite of oblivion.
Shrugging on his banyan and slipping his feet into his slippers, he picked up his candlestick and followed several twisting corridors and flights of winding stairs to the most astonishing collection of books accumulated by generations of Lady Pendleton’s family.
He would enjoy scouring the shelves and find himself something unusual and learned.
Or maybe he’d rereadPride and Prejudice, he thought with a smile. That would be something he’d enjoy conversing with Miss Fairchild about, he thought, pushing open the heavy studded door.
“Miss Fairchild!”
She turned, a look of surprise upon her face. He noticed she was still in her evening gown so clearly she’d not yet gone to bed. She was at the far end of the wall of books, where the romance novels were, and for one wild moment he wondered if she’d come to seek out some of the more illicit titles he’d identified—for she’d not know them otherwise, he realized.
But she hurried towards him, her expression one of concern, a letter in one hand and a novel by Mrs. Radcliffe in the other.
“Lady Pendleton is wrong, Sir Frederick,” she said. “Either she’s in ignorance or she’s withholding the truth, but her ancestor, Lady Pernilla, was not having a dalliance with a stable boy.”
“Indeed.” He wasn’t quite sure how to respond. He certainly didn’t want to convey his true thoughts, which were to question why it should matter to her or anyone else; because he thought it was quite delightful that Miss Fairchild should care and that she should come to him.
