“I, too, am sorry for what I said, Richard.” She seemed to struggle with the right words to say. “It seems I deliberately went out of my way to say what would hurt you. Forgive me. I would never, ever consider our time together to have been a mistake. Our child is precious to me. And you will make a most wonderful father.”
The grim lines by his mouth softened, but they had said so many things to each other. It perhaps was too soon to forget, even if they could forgive.
“We do seem to have some pretty powerful arguments, do we not?”
Unable to answer, she stared intently at her clutched hands as if fascinated by them. He watched as her emotions effected changes across her beautiful face. “Yes. We both seem to possess rather overly passionate natures.”
My God, look at her. A man would swim an ocean for a just moment with her. And he knew instinctively that he would never leave her, would never love another. He would willingly wait a lifetime for her.
“Darcy believes our problems stem chiefly from the simple fact we are both legally insane and that we will most likely blow each other’s brains out within the year.” His heart was pumping wildly, and all he could think of was the smell of her hair and her soft skin and her tenderness when she made love to him.
She agreed sadly and shrugged, then looked down again to her hands.
“He also declares that there are no two people in the world better suited for each other.”
Quickly, she looked up, joy flooding her face with color. “Did he? Did he really?” She sounded so reassured. “Oh, well, I must say that was very sweet of him.”
“I am not quite sure he meant that as a compliment, Amanda.”
At that moment, Catherine glided into the room. “Ah, the lovebirds! How wonderful to see you both speaking so civilly to each other. So much better than all that screeching incoherently at the top of your lungs, don’t you think?” She smiled beatifically at the stiff, awkward, and miserably unhappy duo.
“Well, that’s enough of that. I hate to break up this heartwarming scene, but I believe our carriage is arriving outside, Richard. Amanda, you will wait for us here. If we are successful, which I believe we will be, we may finally settle this custody issue in your favor. Are you ready, Nephew?”
“Yes, I am ready, Aunt Catherine.” He placed a hand on his hip and stood facing her. “But for what exactly am I ready? What is this plan you have devised? And believe me, I await in stark terror for your reply. You have no idea how it chills me to the very marrow of my bones to go along with one of your schemes, unknowing of what to expect.”
I shall call the decorator and have this entire hallway redone in a Persian motif. Yes, that would be very good, since I do look so very well in blue silk. I draw the line, however, at wearing turbans. Too fanatical a fashion statement, if anyone was to ask me… Catherine was walking serenely past him when his words finally took root in her brain. Aghast and insulted, she snatched first her reticule and then her gloves from Jamison, after which he was forced to follow her at a respectable distance, holding up her cloak as she angrily paced back and forth. “Whenever have I ever done anything to cause you or anyone else any concern?!”
Fitzwilliam whimpered, and his hand went immediately to his flip-flopping stomach. For unknown reasons, Catherine took this motion as some sort of an apology and an admission of his gross unfairness toward her. “And see that you don’t!” No one understood what that meant either.
An outside footman opened the door and nodded to the butler. At last donning her cloak Catherine motioned for Jamison to open the great doors, aunt and nephew emerging into the brilliant winter morning. Almost immediately, the most magnificent coach Fitzwilliam had ever beheld approached the front portico of Rosings House, pulled by four immense, matching black Arabians.
Emitting an impressed whistle, he turned toward his aunt, a suspicious gleam in his eye. “Who in the world owns this, then?” He searched for a crest or some indication of the owner, but there was nothing, only the black mirrored reflection of themselves standing there. A coach this magnificent was reserved for royalty; not even a duke or an earl would dare be this ostentatious. It was large enough for the entire royal family.
Four liveried guards riding abreast of the carriage confirmed his impression. A wigged footman in black and gold jumped down from the rear of the carriage and ran to open the door as another came from nowhere to offer his hand in assistance. Catherine motioned for Fitzwilliam to follow as she was handed into the coach. The footmen bowed to him.
“Richard, you know Mrs. Fitzherbert, do you not? I believe the last time you saw her you were ten years old and setting fire to a chamber pot.” Catherine spoke cheerfully, nearly bubbling over with good humor and pride. “Maria, as you know, was my dearest friend during my single days at court. We had such good fun.” The lady smiled warmly at Lady Catherine while taking her hand and giving it a loving pat, then turned to Fitzwilliam.
Chapter 14
Mrs. Maria Fitzherbert was rightful wife of George, Prince of Wales, the future George IV, King of England, or so she was regarded by certain members of the upper ten thousand. The prince had married the twice-widowed Mrs. Fitzherbert in a Catholic ceremony, and they had lived secretly together until, sadly, the King dissolved the marriage and forced his union with another. Now in their older years, it was Mrs. Fitzherbert in whom the prince confided, regarded as his soul’s true life partner. Although he still kept many mistresses, she was his dearest friend.
“It’s an honor to see you again, madam.” Fitzwilliam took her hand and kissed it. Long accustomed to royal circles, he was polite but not in awe. He was confused by her presence.
“The honor is mine, Colonel Fitzwilliam. I don’t believe my husband and I have properly commended your valor at Waterloo.” She smiled warmly at him, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “We followed the campaigns very closely over the years. You are very highly regarded as a true hero in our home, sir.”
Teatime at Penwood saw the dowager Lady Marguerite Penrod hard at work at her desk, penning instructions to her solicitors, menus for the week ahead with treats that she knew her grandson favored, rejection letters to the many applicants for position of governess. Beneath these neat stacks were more important letters—letters from and to boarding schools. The farther she could send the child, the less influence the American would have. The less influence the American would have, the better chance her grandson would be brought up properly—as an English gentleman befitting his rank and title.
Her butler scratched lightly at the door, entering discreetly the moment he was instructed. He walked solemnly to her side, the beautifully understated calling card lying face up in the center of the silver salver. When she did not immediately acknowledge him, he coughed softly to draw her attention. She slammed her hand down onto the desk.
“Did I not tell you I was to be left alone this afternoon? Why must every instruction I issue be compromised?” She sighed angrily. “Whoever is out there, send them away.”
“Forgive me, madam. I thought perhaps you would make an exception in this case.” His eyes drifted anxiously to the card. He appeared very nervous.
Curiosity getting the better of her, she gave him a calculated, hard glare then snatched the card from the tray. Within moments, her expression swept from annoyance to ecstasy. It was then felled by a look of apprehension. Ordinarily she would have been overjoyed at the tremendous honor of a visit by none other than Lady Catherine de Bourgh herself. However, she had been made recently aware that her appalling daughter-in-law was somehow involved with both the countess’s nephews, meeting scandalously for a liaison with one and hiding her son at another’s home. Alarm spoiled what would have been her immense pride at this unprecedented visit.