Isabelle’s reaction was ambiguous: Disappointment dragged across her face, followed by a flitter of relief. For him to have never bedded his wife would have been a terrific statement of faithfulness to her; but it would also mean that in trying for an heir, he’d be taking on a new lover, which Isabelle could not possibly want.
“I know you don’t care for the arrangement, Isabelle, but you understand that Lady Fitzhugh and I must do our duty at some point. I believe you’d prefer to have this out of the way, rather than for me to go back to her periodically, once we are together.”
“This is mind-boggling,” said Isabelle unhappily. “You should have taken care of the matter of your heirs much sooner. It was a complete dereliction of duty on your part.”
“It was,” he admitted. “But then I never imagined you’d come back into my life and change everything.”
“I don’t like this.”
He took hold of her hand. “We must still be fair. Lady Fitzhugh deserves the same freedom that she has given me. However, without an heir, she will never pursue that freedom. It will bother me to think of her alone and untended—and it will taint our happiness.”
“But six months is such a long time. Anything could happen.”
“Six months is not so long compared to how much time we’ve spent apart, or the number of years that await us.”
Isabelle gripped his fingers. “Remember what I’d told you in my letter? Captain Englewood and I caught the same fever. He was as hardy as a mountain goat. Yet in the end, I lived and he did not.
Her eyes dimmed. “You should not be so trusting of fate, Fitz. Life turned against you before and it could turn against you again. Don’t wait. Seize the moment. Live as if there is no tomorrow.”
He’d already tried that, in the Lake District. But tomorrows had an inexorable persistence about them: They always arrived. “I’d dearly love to, but I’m not temperamentally suited to living that way.”
Isabelle sighed. “Now I remember: I could never change your mind once you’d made it up, especially when you are set on being dreadfully responsible.”
“I apologize for being such a stick-in-the-mud.”
“Don’t,” said Isabelle. She pressed his hand into her cheek, her eyes tender again. “It’s what I’ve always liked about you—that you can be counted upon to do the right thing. Now enough of this high-mindedness. Let’s talk about the future.”
He was relieved. “Yes, let’s.”
She rose and retrieved a folded newspaper from a writing desk. “I’ve been looking at advertisements of properties for let—a home in the country for us. At the moment, they all sound terribly idyllic. Let me read you a few that I find particularly enticing.”
Her animation was remarkable. When her face lit with excitement, the entire room grew incandescent. Her zest, her keenness, her appetite for life—all the qualities that had once dazzled him had remained amazingly intact. To listen to her was to be transported to a different age altogether, a time before life first humbled them.
But part of him could not help feeling uneasy. His situation was complicated, but hers was no less so with young children under her roof. It would be years before Alexander was old enough to be sent to school. And Hyacinth was not going anywhere until the day she married.
Their cohabitation must be conducted with care and a great deal of decorum, so that they neither gave the children the wrong impression of acceptable conduct, nor mortified them before their peers.
That would have been the first hurdle Fitz chose to tackle, not houses, which were easy to come by. But after Isabelle had run down the list of properties that had caught her interest, she launched into a discussion of ponies instead. For Christmas she wished to present her children each with a pony, what did Fitz think of the different breeds?
It was still early, he reasoned with himself. And hadn’t they dealt with enough of reality for a while? Let her dream unimpeded for a little longer. There was time later to consider the practical ramifications of their new life together.
“I had a Welsh pony when I was a child,” he said. “I liked it very well.”
Helena paced in her office. She had to find a way to see Andrew. But Susie, her new maid, adhered to her like flypaper. Come Susie’s half days, Millie always managed to fill the afternoons with engagements for Helena, so there was no opportunity to slip away.
She might be less agitated if she could catch a glimpse of Andrew at some of the functions she was obliged to attend—it was how they’d maintained their friendship over the years, via running into each other regularly. Or if he would resume writing to her. But neither happened.
A knock came at her door. “Miss Fitzhugh,” said her secretary, “there is a courier for you.”
“You may take the delivery.”
“He insists that he must hand his parcel to you in person.”
Authors and their precious manuscripts. Helena opened her door and took the sizable package. “Who is the sender?”
“Lord Hastings, mum,” said the courier.