His pulse raced. Of course not, but the very thought of it made him hot everywhere.
Then he realized why she would think him capable of such an abrupt, indelicate demand: His fingers hadn’t been content to remain in one place, but had roamed up the column of her neck to explore the tender place just beneath her ear.
In a motion that might be called a caress.
He hastily withdrew his hand. “No, not tonight.”
“When, then?” Her voice was barely audible.
He stared where his hand had been, her smooth, bare shoulder, her slender throat, her dainty earlobe. “A week from tonight.”
She said nothing.
“Listen to me: It will be fine. And who knows? You might conceive right away.”
She averted her face, but even from this oblique angle, for him, who’d studied the subtle gradation of her expression for years, it was easy to see she was trying very hard not to grimace.
He was hesitant to touch her again so soon, but it was unthinkable that he should not comfort her.
“It will be all right,” he said, pulling her into a loose embrace, “I promise.”
It would be all right for him, not for her.
Could he not understand what he was asking of her? To become his lover knowing that she would be set aside at a specific date, knowing that even as he lay with her, his heart and mind were already contemplating his blissful future with Mrs. Englewood?
Tell him. It’s nobody’s fault but your own if you don’t tell him.
He kissed her hair.
Stop. Don’t touch me.
But she loved their rare instances of physical contact. When he’d lifted her and spun her around, when he’d danced four waltzes in a row with her, when he’d wrapped his arm around her shoulder upon the airship. And of course, that night in Italy. Those were the memories she savored over and over again, every detail polished to a high sheen, each sensation savored to the full.
Even now her body yearned to be closer to him. She wanted to press her nose into his skin and inhale hungrily—he always smelled as if he’d just taken a walk across a sunny meadow. She wanted to rub her palm against his jaw to feel the beginning of stubbles. She wanted to slide her hands underneath his shirt and learn every single shape and texture, with the fierce dedication she’d once put into mastering the Grandes études.
There is no one else. I love you. I have loved only you. For pity’s sake don’t make me do this.
He kissed her on her ear, a close-lipped, chaste peck. Desire charred her all the same. She was burned to the ground, reduced to rubble.
“It will be over soon,” he murmured. “It will be over before you know it.”
And for the rest of her life, she would be only an afterthought in his and Mrs. Englewood’s radiant happiness.
I can’t. I can’t. Leave me alone.
“I will be the most considerate lover. I promise.”
A small sob escaped her despite her best efforts to the contrary.
He embraced her more tightly. She could scarcely breathe. She wanted him to never let go.
“All right,” she said. “Six months, a week from tonight.”
“Thank you,” he whispered.
It was the beginning of the end.
Or perhaps, it was only the end of something that was never meant to begin.
CHAPTER 5
The Honeymoon
1888
There was a giant in Fitz’s head, tirelessly wielding a sledgehammer the size of Mount Olympus. He twitched, the floor hard and cold against his aching body.
“Get up!” shouted the giant, his bellow like a nail driven through Fitz’s skull. “For the love of God, get up!”
It wasn’t the giant who yelled, but Hastings. Fitz wanted to tell him to shut up and leave him alone—if he could get up he wouldn’t be on the floor like a common drunk. But his throat seemed coated in sand and grit; he couldn’t push a word past.
Hastings swore and gripped Fitz by the back of his shirt. They were of a similar height but Hastings was brawnier. He dragged Fitz along the floor, the motion making Fitz’s stomach queasy and his head hurt, as if it were being batted against a wall.
“Stop. Goddamn it, stop.”
Hastings didn’t care. He hauled Fitz into something resembling a vertical position then dunked him, fully dressed, into a bathtub full of scalding water.
“Jesus!”
“Get clean, get sober,” growled Hastings. “I can only keep Colonel Clements waiting for so long.”
Colonel Clements can go fuck himself.
Then Fitz remembered, as the sledgehammer came down again, that it was his wedding day. Time stopped for no one, least of all a young man who only wanted to hold on to what he had.
He wiped a wet hand over his face and opened his eyes at last. He was in a bath with peeling brown wallpaper, straggly scum-green curtains, and a dented mirror frame that was missing the mirror inside. His town house, he realized, cringing.
Hastings had no sympathy for him. “Hurry up!”
“Colonel Clements—” He sucked in a breath. It felt as if someone had stuck a fork into his right eye. “He isn’t supposed to be here until half past ten.”