Sherry Thomas - Ravishing the Heiress

Oww,” said Fitz.

“Are you all right?”

He’d returned some time ago and she’d pushed him into bed and leaped on top of him. She was still on top of him, running her hand over his arm, nipping him on his shoulder.

He dug out a framed photograph from under his back. “I must have left this on your bed when I was here earlier, waiting for you to come back from your walk.”

She sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t know you were hurting all this time. I’m so—”

He put a finger over her lips and grinned raffishly. “Trust me, I didn’t feel it at all.”

They spent a moment looking at the photograph, with the two of them standing together at the edge of a picture that should have included only Hastings. It was her favorite—she had a framed print in every house and several unframed prints stashed in her dressing room.

“Let’s cut Hastings out,” Fitz suggested. “So it will be only the two of us.”

She giggled. “Poor Hastings.”

“I’m sure he’ll volunteer to leave us alone.”

The photograph safely out of the way on the nightstand, he kissed her. “So, this is what it feels like to be married to the woman I love.”

The woman I love. She would never tire of the sound of it. “Satisfactory, I hope.”

He cupped her face. “For years I’d wondered how my life might have been different—better—had I been able to go back in time and change certain crucial events. Extending the previous’s earl’s lifespan, for example, or causing the north wing to never have been built. After a while I stopped such speculations because I was busy and there was no point. But now I know: I wouldn’t change a thing, because only this life I’ve lived could have led me here, with you.” He traced a finger over her brow. “And I’m beyond glad to be here, with you.”

Her eyes turned moist again. “I love you.”

“I love you.” He kissed her again. “And I love everything about you.”

Smiling through her tears, she kissed the signet ring on his hand. Then, she licked it as she’d wanted to do for years and years. “Now, Lord Fitzhugh, I give you a choice: supper or me?”

“You, my love.” He pulled her toward him. “Always you.”

Because women made many of the decisions in the purchase of household items, manufacturers and other companies had long sought to appeal to them. As a result, women achieved access and success in advertising far earlier than they had in many other professions, managing advertising agencies by the 1890s.

And for readers who want to know what happened to Isabelle Pelham Englewood, you will find her story in Midnight Scandals, an anthology by Courtney Milan, Carolyn Jewel, and Sherry Thomas.

Darkness was like a lover’s embrace, Helena Fitzhugh had heard it said.

Bollocks.

Nothing was like a lover’s embrace, with its warmth, strength, and passionate need. But a lover’s embrace made one look favorably upon the entirety of the universe. As Helena entered her unlit bedroom, surrounded by darkness, she sighed in contentment.

Or rather, as much contentment as possible given that her particular lover’s embrace happened through her chemise and Andrew’s nightshirt. But still, how new and thrilling it was to kiss and touch in the comfort and privacy of a bed, almost enough to pretend that the past six years never happened and that the only thing that separated them were two layers of thin, soft merino wool.

“Hullo, Miss Fitzhugh,” came a man’s voice out of the darkness.

Her heart stopped. David Hillsborough, Viscount Hastings, was her brother Fitz’s best friend—but not exactly a friend to her.

“Mistook my room for one of your paramours’?” She was proud of herself. Her voice sounded even, almost blasé.

“Then I would have greeted you by one of their names, wouldn’t I?” His voice was just as nonchalant as hers.

A match flared, illuminating a pair of stern eyes. It always surprised her that he could look serious—intimidating—at times, when he was so frivolous a person.

He lit a hand candle. “Where were you, Miss Fitzhugh?”

“I was hungry. I went to the butler’s pantry and found myself a slice of pear cake.”

He blew out the match and tossed it in the grate. “And came back directly?”

“Not that it is any of your concern, but yes.”

“So if I kiss you now, you would taste of pear cake?”

Trust Hastings to always drag a discussion in this particular direction. “Absolutely. But as your lips will never touch mine, that is a moot point, my Lord Hastings.”

He looked at her askance. “You are aware, are you not, that I am one of your brother’s most trusted friends?”

A friendship she’d never quite understood. “And?”

“And as such, when I become aware of gross misconduct on your part, it behooves me to inform your brother without delay.”

She lifted her chin. “Gross misconduct? Is that what one calls a little foray to the butler’s pantry these days?”

“A little foray to the butler’s pantry, is that what one calls gross misconduct these days? Or is that how one properly refers to the territory inside Mr. Martin’s underlinens?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.”

“Should I use the scientific names?”

And wouldn’t he enjoy doing that. But as it was her steadfast policy to never let him enjoy himself at her expense, she declared, “Mr. Martin and I are friends of long standing and nothing more.”

“You and I are friends of long standing and—”

“You and I are acquaintances of long standing, Hastings.”

“Fine. Your sister and I are friends of long standing and yet she has never come to spend hours in my room. Alone. After midnight.”

“I went for a slice of cake.”

He cocked his head. “I saw you go into Mr. Martin’s room at forty minutes past midnight, Miss Fitzhugh. You were still there when I left twenty minutes ago. By the way, I also witnessed the same thing happening for the past two nights. You can accuse me of many things—and you do—but you cannot charge me with drawing conclusions on insufficient evidence. Not in this case at least.”

She stiffened. She’d underestimated him, it would seem. He’d been his usual flighty, superficial self; she wouldn’t have guessed he had the faintest inkling of her nighttime forays.

“What do you want, Hastings?”

“I want you to mend your ways, my dear Miss Fitzhugh. I understand very well Mr. Martin should have been yours in an ideal world. I also understand that his wife has been praying for him to take a lover so she could do the same. But none of it will matter should you be found out. So you see, it is my moral obligation to leave at first light and inform your siblings, my dear, dear friends, that their beloved sister is throwing away her life.”

She rolled her eyes. “What do you want, Hastings?”

He sighed dramatically. “It wounds me, Miss Fitzhugh. Why do you always suspect me of ulterior motives?”

“Because you always have one. What do I have to do now for your silence?”

“That will not happen.”

“I refuse to think you cannot be bought, Hastings.”

“My, such adamant faith in my corruptibility. I almost hate to disappoint you.”

“Then don’t disappoint me. Name your price.”

His title was quite new—he was only the second Viscount Hastings after his uncle. The family coffer was full to the brim. His price would not be anything denominated in pound sterling.

“If I say nothing,” he mused, “Fitz will be quite put out with me.”

“If you say nothing, my brother will not know anything.”

“Fitz is a clever man—except when it comes to his wife, perhaps. He will learn sooner or later, somehow.”

“But you are a man who lives in the present, aren’t you?”

He lifted a brow. “That wouldn’t be your way of saying that I am empty-headed and incapable of thinking of the future, would it?”