Ravishing the Heiress Read Online Free PDF Page A

almost exact replica, which Fitz had given her a few years ago, as a token of his regard.
    And she’d seen it as such a sign of hope—more fool she.
    “I thought you might be here,” said her husband.
    Surprised, she looked over her shoulder. He stood behind the bench, his hands lightly resting on its back—the same elegant hands that had turned music for her while his words had turned her inside out.
    Now on his right index finger, he wore a signet ring the crest of which bore an intaglio engraving of the Fitzhugh coat of arms. The ring had been a present from her. The sight of it on his hand had stirred her then and stirred her still.
    She wanted to touch it. Lick it. Feel its metallic caress everywhere on her body.
    “I thought you’d already left.”
    From her perch upstairs, she’d watched him stroll away. It was early yet, hours from his meeting with Mrs. Englewood. But as he’d turned the corner, he’d swung his walking stick a full circle in the air. That, coming from him, was the equivalent of another man dancing in the streets.
    “I realized I will be going past Hatchard’s today,” he said. “Would you like me to check whether your order of books has come in?”
    “That’s very kind of you, but surely, you have a busy day ahead and—”
    “It’s settled, then: I’ll have a quick word with the bookseller.”
    “Thank you,” she murmured.
    He smiled. “My pleasure.”
    She’d mentioned the special order she’d put in at Hatchard’s once, days ago. That he’d remembered and offered to check for her would have thrilled her another time—she’d have taken it as yet another sign that they were growing ever closer.
    Today his consideration only signified that he himself was gloriously happy at the prospect of seeing his beloved. He was summertime itself, young, luminous, lit from within by rekindled hopes and reawakened dreams. And every beggar along his path—herself included—could expect redoubled generosity and kindness.
    He turned to leave but stopped. “I almost forgot, you ought to be more mindful of your intake of salt—you put enough into your scrambled eggs to preserve them for the next decade.”
    And then he was gone, leaving her alone in the garden.

     
    F itz stood outside Isabelle’s house.
    He thought he’d learned to be levelheaded, but every emotion that tumbled through him was unrestrained, heart-stopping. Second chances—not many received such graces, and even fewer were in a position to seize them with both hands.
    Dread and hope pulsed in his blood with equal intensity. So many years had passed. He’d changed. She, too, must have changed. Would they even have anything to say to each other when they came face-to-face?
    He rang the bell. A maid in a large white cap and a long white bib opened the door, took his card, and asked him to follow her into the house. He stopped, however, in the vestibule, empty except for a rectangular mirror and a narrow console table underneath. A silver tray for calling cards sat on the table. Beside it, an instantly recognizable photograph.
    He had a copy of the same photograph somewhere in the depths of his dressing room. It had been taken near the end of his first stay at the Pelham house, the ladies in their Sunday finery seated in the front row, the gentlemen, a solemn-looking lot, standing behind them. He himself looked impossibly young; Isabelle was uncharacteristically demure, her hands folded chastely in her lap.
    But those hands concealed a secret. Directly after the photographer pronounced himself satisfied, she’d pulled Fitz aside and given him what she’d been stowing in her pocket: a tiny dormouse she’d named Alice. Alice had been the perfect pet for a busy student: She hibernated for much of Michaelmas Half and all of Lent Half, emerging onlyin April to live in his pocket on a delicate diet of berries, nuts, and an occasional caterpillar.
    “I always keep that photograph close to me,” said a familiar voice.