As the breakfast room emptied of children and servants, Fitz contemplated Mel. How beautiful she was, with her gleaming dark eyes and hair, her proud chin and lush mouth. Her father had claimed Spanish nobility somewhere in his bloodline. Her mother’s side was thoroughly English. Though Mel had said little about her mother, she’d been close to her father, a proud soldier, a steady and honorable man who, in one impetuous moment of passion, had eloped with a banker’s flighty daughter.
Mel was spirited but not flighty. At Lady Clitheroe’s he’d noticed her holding back, her eyes lit with amusement as other young ladies hounded him. Over several days, he’d watched her tease the wallflowers out of their nerves and engage the younger men in cards and games, always with the playfulness of an older sibling. Besides being beautiful, she was comfortable and kind.
A sense of what he had to lose swept through him. Too absorbed in his own troubles, he’d taken her promise to marry him for granted. He’d taken her for granted. He’d hurt her.
Had he done that to Alice?
He shook off the thought. With Alice, there’d been fault on both sides.
“Lord Loughton, you ought to go to that party with your family and your wards.”
She lifted his fingers away from her cheek, but he held on to her hand. “The parish children’s party is always a merry time, but I wouldn’t miss the chance to talk things over with you.”
“What is there to say? You are set free. I will leave.”
“And go where?”
“That is not your concern.”
“You and Hermione setting out on the road in this weather, just the two of you?” It most certainly was his concern. “I would worry. And go where, Mel?”
She squeezed her eyes tight and her lips trembled. The threat of tears gave him hope.
“Oh, very well. Papa left me a cottage and a small holding.”
“Where?”
“In the north.”
“North of here? The roads are dreadful in Yorkshire, my brother George said.” And she’d set out on this journey in the middle of winter instead of sensibly waiting until spring. Why?
There must be a good reason. Mother had hinted that Lady Hermione was pockets to let. Mel’s small income from her father’s bequest would suffice if she owned the cottage outright, if it wasn’t falling down about her and in need of expensive repairs. Her grandfather had promised to leave a small bequest. Though he’d been ill recently, Sawley, as far as he knew, was still alive.
“Nevertheless, I will journey on,” she said. “I’m not afraid of the weather.”
Their intertwined hands drew her attention, and she chewed on her lip, blinking prodigiously. A tear slid down her cheek.
“Oh, Mel.”
With a quiet curse, she straightened her shoulders. “I don’t know why I’m such a watering-pot lately. You have always been too kind to me. When we’re together, that is. Let us leave it at that and go our separate ways.” She shivered and turned to the fire.
Stubborn woman. He wouldn’t give up so easily. Or at all. “Come with me to the study and let me tell you about the weeks since we’ve been apart. There’s a good fire there. I can even show you the estate books and you might have some advice for me.”
Her lips firmed, making him want to soften them with his own. When she stood and took the arm he offered, hope stirred in him. He’d win her back. He’d change her mind about leaving. He could ride to the bishop for a license and be married before his brother George tied the knot with Sophie. Or… Mother had reminded him that the banns had already been called. There was no need whatsoever to wait.
He led her up the stairs to the cozy room where just three nights earlier, Mother, George, and Sophie had laid all his incompetence out in the open.
The room he led her to had a few shelves, a cabinet, and chairs, but a massive mahogany desk held center stage, laden with correspondence, ledgers, and files. It was altogether too fusty and old fashioned for Fitz, who seemed most at home on his horse or in the seat of his phaeton, and she could never picture him immersing himself in so much paper.
He bypassed the desk and showed her to an upholstered chair near the hearth, then set to work feeding the fire, reminding her of the rainy afternoon they’d spent together in the private parlor of the Flitwick inn where they’d taken refuge.
“Are you warm enough, my dear?”
“Quite.” She cleared her throat, finding a lump and trying to swallow it. “I’ve said my piece. If you have something to say, please proceed, so I may go on my way.”
He pulled his matching chair closer. His hand, so strong and warm, came around hers, and a new wave of blubbering threatened. She must, must, must get hold of herself. Fitz did not love her. Why he was being so kind, she couldn’t imagine.
“I spent Christmas Day reading and rereading your letters. I had planned to leave this morning and journey to Hampshire to see you. I’ve behaved abominably, and I wanted to explain. To beg your forgiveness for my absence and lack of attention. It’s true, Father’s death left me busy settling the estate and arranging matters with the title. It’s also true I didn’t receive all your letters right away. But…” His jaw firmed. “Here is another truth, Mel: I’ve made a hash of estate matters these last few months, even before Father’s death. I’m not quite the wealthy man whose hand you accepted in September.”
She’d accepted more than his hand. “You are telling me this…this disappearance was about money?”
Her breath left her as the realization hit: he needed a wealthy heiress.
“Yes,” he said, pausing a moment too long.
Heat flared in her and then drained, and a shiver went through her. He’d used her and tossed her aside, just as Papa warned men would do. On his deathbed, her father had cautioned her that even her small income might draw a bounder. Without him to protect her, he’d urged her to be sensible.
Heavens, she was a hundred times more sensible than Mother and her husband, and perhaps even more so than her dear father.
Her vision clouded. Except with Fitz. She’d thrown herself headlong into this rash betrothal. She ought to have known her dowry wouldn’t, in the long run, be enough.
“I’d heard…” She cleared her throat. “You were off to one house party or fête, or fox hunt after another.” She swallowed hard, fighting a wave of emotion. What a ninny she was. “You were looking to trade up to an heiress.”
“No.” His hand crushed her own. “Never. I did not play you false, Mel. I would never do that.”
He let go of her hand and stood, bracing himself on the mantel, staring into the fire. “Do you not recall what your grandfather told you? You need to move about in society to learn of financial opportunities. That was my purpose. Meeting friends who could help me through a rough patch.”
She swallowed a scoff. What nerve he had. Her interview with Gregory Sawley had been her mission, her visit, and her lesson. Fitz had already learned those lessons. He’d merely tagged along with her that day.
“Did your father never need to absent himself to tend to business?”
“Of course. He was a soldier.”
“Do you not remember that I said my father offered the same advice? That’s why two of my brothers are in London most of the year, keeping track of investments and business opportunities.”
“And they can’t sell off shares or produce ready cash to help you?”
He swiped a hand through his hair. “It’s not strictly money that’s needed. There are some new agricultural practices to explore and… this is mine to manage. But, yes. My brothers would help, but I’d only ask it for the sake of Mother or the children. And I don’t want to ask.”
“You have your pride.” She understood pride. Her own had been suffering immensely these last few weeks.
He fell to his knees and took her free hand. “Can you endure some small economies while I resolve this? We’ll write a proper settlement agreement, as your grandfather demanded. You’ll retain your inheritance and control over it. I don’t want to lose your wise counsel, Mel. I don’t want to lose you.”
The pain in his face showed what it cost him in pride. Could she trust him? He hadn’t said anything about love. But love could grow, couldn’t it, if there was respect and understanding?
Perhaps that was the better way. She’d watched her parents thrash about, hurting each other. The passion that launched them into marriage had torched any respect or understanding they’d shared at the beginning. Perhaps Fitz’s mother and father had provided him a better example of married life.
She cradled his face with her hand and swept her thumb over his freshly shaved jaw, the warmth in his eyes pulling her toward him until she was in his arms and their lips touched with a sweetness that brought tears to her eyes.
Desire flooded her in a sudden mad rush, driving out all thought except for the need to feel him. Her hands came around him, her fingers tangled into his hair even as her tongue met his. Then, lips still locked, she was floating up and then down, onto his lap.
She yanked at his neckcloth, while his hands moved over her arms, her breasts, her hips; down her skirts, and up again, his warm hands sliding over her stockings and garters and—
“Wait.” Fitz pressed his forehead to hers. “Let me lock the door.”
“Oh.” Mel’s eyes shot open. His neckcloth flapped open against the unbuttoned waistcoat and… her cheeks flamed. She’d unbuttoned his fall. “No.”
She jumped off of him, pacing, pressing her hands to her cheeks. “I’m sorry.” She was not just a ridiculous watering pot lately; where Fitz was concerned, she was a wanton.
Strong arms came around her. “I’m not sorry. Marry me, Mel.”
No. There was a reason she couldn’t. What was it?
She opened her eyes and her gaze fell on the piles of paper and files. Fitz said he wanted her counsel.
“What happened to put you in such dire financial straits?” If a man trained up to be a peer of the realm could bungle finances… there would be a lesson there for someone like herself.
His arms tensed. “Bad crops. Bad storms. A bad post-war economy. And I loaned a great deal of money to a friend.”
She turned in his arms and studied him. His mouth had hardened, and he looked away.
“To whom? Why?”
“I’d recommended an investment that went bad. I’d withdrawn before it was too late, and neglected to tell him that. He’d thrown in everything and lost it, and I felt responsible. But, I’ve worked out a repayment agreement with Lady Glanford—”
“Glanford?”
“I loaned her late husband a great deal of money.”
The voice was that of an angry stranger. This Fitz she didn’t recognize, but she felt sure he wasn’t angry with her. The anger, the loathing was aimed at Glanford.
What had Maggie said? That he’d neglected his wards. Had the anger against the father been visited upon the sons?
No, that wasn’t right. She’d seen with her own eyes at breakfast that he and the boys were on good terms. There was more to this and she must prod him to tell her. How best should she go about it?