“Oh, my, she is leaving,” Lady Fitzhugh murmured halfway through the third waltz. “And…she has left.”
“We’ll dance one more just so that somebody doesn’t run to her and say we pulled apart the moment we drove her away.”
“Four waltzes. Shocking, Lord Fitzhugh.”
“My pleasure. And please, call me Fitz—all my friends do. And we’ve been friends for a while, haven’t we?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He raised a brow. “You don’t know for certain, Lady Fitz? Has anyone else ever insulted you? Tell me and I’ll bring down my wrath upon them to prove my devoted friendship.”
Her cheeks turned pink. “You don’t need to prove anything. I know we are friends.”
“Good,” he said. “I don’t want you to think of me as just the man you had to marry to please your parents.”
“No, not that,” she said softly. “Not a chance.”
Sometimes dreams did come true.
The country house party was a roaring success. The grouse was plentiful, the trout endlessly abundant. They organized a cricket match, a cycling competition, and an excursion to the spectacular Somerset coast. Millie, in a moment of inspiration, hired a photographer and gifted each guest with a sitting and a handsome portrait.
On the last night of the party, in a crowded drawing room, full of laughter and high spirits, Lord Hastings raised his glass and cried, “To our delightful hosts!”
His toast was taken up by all the guests. Millie, at the center of all the cheer and goodwill, her husband by her side, did her level best to commit every last detail of the moment to memory. The kiss Venetia blew toward her, Helena’s arm around her shoulders, her mother’s proud smile, all under the golden light from the new chandelier which had been hoisted into place only two days before the house party began.
The next morning, however, she learned that Mrs. Englewood had given birth to another child, a boy this time. And if she knew, Fitz must also know. As they waved good-bye to their departing guests, she observed him rather nervously.
He turned to her and smiled. “Would you like a similar party for Christmas as well?”
He was genuinely pleased. It was as if the increasing size of Mrs. Englewood’s family now had very little—if anything at all—to do with him.
“Yes, absolutely,” she said, her tone fervent.
“You are sure? You look a little tired.”
She had been feeling bleary-eyed, but not anymore. “I can climb the Matterhorn with nothing more than a stick and a canteen.”
“Then, come with me. You’ve had your fun and games, Lady Fitz. Time to get back to work.”
“Aye, aye, Captain!”
They traipsed all over the estate. Now that the house had been largely taken care of, their attention turned to the grounds. The kitchen garden’s west wall needed to be rebuilt—its big gap let in too much cold air and some of the fruit trees had not survived the winter. The man-made lake not far from the entrance of the estate was a great big bruise on the land. Next to it, the Greek folly that must have once been someone’s pride and joy had become what the French might call a pissoir.
Always so much to do.
After a whole morning of planning and note-taking, they shared a sandwich next to the lavender fields, listening to the buzz of the bees and talking about a new bridge across the trout stream to replace the old one, which had become too rotted to use.
Millie would not have minded if the day had gone on forever. But eventually, they walked back toward the manor. Once they crossed its threshold, he would seek his own rooms and expect her to do the same.
But before they returned to the house, he guided her toward the gardens. She’d been extravagant with the lavender, but she had not neglected the rest of her gardens. The roses were past their best, but the honeysuckles and hydrangeas were still in fine fettle. And now, in her favorite corner of the garden, just past a bed of chamomiles and a laburnum avenue that had been restored in the spring, was something that had not been there before: a garden bench.
“I know you’ve always liked the bench behind our town house. Consider this one a slightly early birthday present.”
“It’s…” Her voice caught. “It’s very fine.”
It was a near exact replica of the one in the garden behind their town house, large, sturdy, sun warmed.
“I’ll leave you to enjoy,” he said, and walked away with a wave.
She sat down and enjoyed indeed. A garden and a bench—and a hope that ever bloomed.
CHAPTER 12
1896
Christian de Montfort, the Duke of Lexington, enjoyed watching his wife when she was less than perfectly illuminated. The room was thick with the blue shadows of twilight.
She slipped into her combination, then came back to bed and looped an arm about his shoulders. “You are not getting ready?”
“My dear Venetia, it doesn’t take as much time for me.”