Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

More than a quarter of an hour passed before he raised his head. “I don’t have to explain this to you, do I?”

“Not at all.” I knew his pain too well. It was the same I’d felt when at last I’d mourned my husband, two years after his death. 

“It doesn’t have to do with you—you must understand that. What we have, Emily, it’s everything. I did love her, years ago, but that was different. It wasn’t…she didn’t…” 

“She loved you,” I said. “She told me. She only refused you because she thought having a wife would distract you and put you in danger.” 

“She told you this?” 

“Yes.” 

“I—” 

I put my hand up to his lips. “Colin, it’s all right. She loved you. You have to know that.” 

“I always believed her when she said it was just play,” he said. “I never thought she loved anyone.” 

“She was good at being covert.” 

“Too good.” 

The smell of the wet earth rose all around us. A smell I usually welcomed, something that reminded me of childhood days playing on my father’s estate. But today it caught heavy in my throat as I breathed. I could feel a trembling start in my core, and I could not stop it. 

“I don’t want to disappoint you.” I hated the words the moment they escaped my lips. 

“Disappoint me?” 

I dropped my head against his chest, embarrassed. “I’m afraid I may suffer in comparison to your past.” 

“You have a past too, my dear, one that’s not always been easy for me to accept.” 

“My past? My past hardly even existed.” 

“I knew you as someone else’s wife. My best friend’s wife.” 

“Yes, but—” 

“But you loved him. Eventually you loved him. And he adored you from the beginning. You were his.” 

“Colin, I—” 

“You’re not a girl who’s out for her first Season, and I’m not just down from Cambridge. We come to each other with fully lived lives, Emily.” The rain was falling harder, and we were both drenched. “We must accept that. I don’t think there’s anything more to be said.” 

My eyes filled with tears. He pulled me close to him. 

“You’re shaking,” he said. “It’s cold. We ought to go inside.” 

Part of me wanted to stop him, wanted to insist that we talk about this more. But the rest accepted—begrudgingly, perhaps, but accepted nonetheless—that there was no need to speak further on the subject. Our pasts had brought us to where we were now, and without them, we might never have come together. He took my hand and slipped it, along with his, into his jacket pocket. 

“I love you,” I said, looking up at him. 

He smiled. “Such simple words, yet they sing.” 

“How soon can we be married?” I asked, a smile creeping onto my face. 

“I’m free this afternoon if you don’t have other plans.” 

“If only,” I said. 

“You wouldn’t dare refuse me. Not now.” 

“What would the queen say?” 

“I’ve no interest in anyone’s opinion but yours,” he said, and I knew at once how serious he was. There was no hint of flirtatious teasing in his voice. 

“Does Mrs. Katevatis know?” I asked. 

“She’s making spanakopita and kreatopitakia even as we speak.” 

“Then I don’t see how I could say no,” I said. He brushed a wet curl away from my eyes and took my face in his hands, kissing me gently. I felt every barrier to happiness dissolving inside me. 

“Shall we go straight to the chapel?” he asked. 

“We’d need a license.” 

“I’ve already arranged for that.” 

“We’re soaked,” I said. 

“I don’t mind being soaked. Do you?” 

“No.” I looked at him, memorizing his face so that I’d always be able to recall this moment in perfect detail. “Strangely, I don’t.” 

How could I mind? We’d already waited long enough.

Myriad thanks to…

Jennifer Civiletto and Anne Hawkins, whose guidance and insight made this a better book.

Danielle Bartlett, Shari Newman, Buzzy Porter, and Tom Robinson, publicity gurus.

Dr. Vincent Tranchida, New York City medical examiner, for telling me exactly what to expect from a gunshot to the head.

Mark Smith, The Man in Seat Sixty-One, whose breadth of knowledge about the history of rail travel is staggering.

Mike Campbell, provider of boundless insider information on Vienna and title-concept master; Marcus Sakey for tweaking said concept to perfection.

Joyclyn Ellison, Kristy Kiernan, Elizabeth Letts, and Renee Rosen, fiercely talented writers and partners in daily authorial neurosis.

Brett Battles, Laura Bradford, Rob Gregory Browne, Jon Clinch, Karen Dionne, Zarina Docken, Bente Gallagher, Melanie Lynne Hauser, Joe Konrath, Dusty Rhoades, and Sachin Waikar, for keeping me sane, grounded, and entertained. 

Laura Morefield and Linda Roebuck, who are simply the best. 

Christina Chen, Tammy Humphries, Carrie Medders, and Missy Rightley, friends I can’t imagine being without. 

B.S.R., who always knows exactly what I need and makes sure I get it without having to ask. You’ve turned me into a beach girl. 

Gary and Stacie Gutting, for boundless support. 

Matt and Xander Tyska, for everything. I love you.

Tasha Alexander is a graduate of Notre Dame, where she signed on as an English major in order to have a legitimate excuse for spending all of her time reading. Following graduation, she played nomad for several years, eventually settling with her family in Tennessee. When not reading, she can be found hard at work on her next book featuring Emily Ashton.