Still . . . He drummed his fingers absently on the desk. Why did doing the right thing always have to be so bloody difficult?
Three days later ...
At long last there had been a wedding at Fairborough Hall. The bride was almost ethereal in her beauty, glowing with happiness. Win’s throat tightened a bit at the look of her. It was the sentimentality of the day, nothing more than that.
The groom was understandably nervous. But the tremor in his voice at the start of the ceremony had faded and, by the end, it was strong, solid and steadfast. The voice of a man who had at last determined what he wanted, his course in life. The voice of a man in love.
Watching the happy couple, Win tried and failed to ignore a touch of regret. He had never regretted not marrying Felicia or Lucille. He knew now marriage to either one would have been a dreadful mistake. But Caroline, well, Caroline could have been the love of his life if, of course, she hadn’t already loved someone else. No, he couldn’t regret losing Caroline. In truth, he’d never really had her to lose. But when she gazed into her new husband’s eyes, as if he were the moon and the stars and all things wonderful, it was indeed regret that swept through him. Regret that he had yet to find someone who would gaze at him that way.
No, he had not fallen in love with Caroline and his heart had not been shattered.
It had simply cracked a little.
July 1884
Dear Gray,
I hope this letter finds you well. The promise of spring has given way to a dry, hot summer and, in spite of the heat, there is more amusement to be found in London than at Fairborough Hall. Therefore I am residing at the house in Mayfair for the foreseeable future and availing myself of all that London has to offer. While it is enjoyable, I have discovered I am not so easily entertained as I once was. The price of maturity, I suspect.
I was privileged recently to attend the wedding of a treasured friend. One could tell simply by the look in the happy couple’s eyes as they promised their fealty to one another that there was no thought as to the appropriateness of the match but only their feelings for each other. As it should be, I think.
Perhaps it was the romance apparent in their union or my own history, but I have found myself of late in an oddly thoughtful and reflective state. Do try not to be shocked at this revelation; I have been known on occasion to be somewhat deeper than I might appear. No doubt it will not last as I am not usually of a somber nature.
My failure to successfully progress from proposal to the altar has weighed heavily upon me and I find myself examining my past attempts to wed with an unyielding eye. I have come to the realization that I have been looking, for the most part, for the perfect wife, the perfect future countess, a woman I could grow to love. It does now seem that I have been going about this in entirely the wrong manner as certainly the evidence bears out. It strikes me that love might well make all else fall into place. Perhaps the appropriateness of the match is not as important as the needs of the heart. It sounds so obvious, doesn’t it? And yet this simple tenet has escaped me up until now.
I have decided to ignore the more practical aspects of choosing a wife and ignore as well the necessity to wed, the responsibility I bear to position and family and all else. I shall instead heed the advice I recently dispensed and follow where my heart leads. As it has never led me before, indeed as I have never truly known love, it does sound somewhat daunting. One wonders if perhaps I have never experienced that elusive emotion because I am not destined to do so.
But that is a dreadful thought and, as I am by nature an optimistic sort, I prefer not to dwell on that possibility.
Therefore I shall leave my future in the hands of fate and trust that one day I will find a woman who will look at me as if I were the moon and the stars and all things wonderful. A look that will come from her very soul to touch mine. A look I will return and treasure for the rest of my days.
Good Lord, Gray, what has happened to me? Have I at last become a true romantic or has there always been a romantic imprisoned within me crying for release? In many ways, I have never had the patience to trust in fate, but my nature has not served me well. So I will bide my time, live my life as best I can and perhaps one day I shall find what I seek. And doesn’t that seem to be the way of it? Only when one ceases to search does one find what has been so elusive.
Ah well, we shall see....
Dear Reader,
In every book I write there are any number of secondary characters meant to be nothing more than secondary characters. He (or she) appears, moves the plot along and then conveniently vanishes. But every now and then I write a minor character who simply refuses to stay minor.
When Winfield Elliott, Viscount Stillwell, made his appearance in What Happens at Christmas, I knew I was in trouble. I knew I could not let this character appear in more than a handful of scenes because it was entirely possible he would take over. At that point, I had no intention of writing more about the characters who inhabited Millworth Manor for Christmas 1886 or their friends and neighbors. But Winfield Elliott was a character who refused to be ignored, no matter how hard I tried. So finally, I asked him, “What do you want from me, Lord Stillwell?”
“What does anyone in my place want? You have already given me wealth and position, and I am rather dashing, for which I am eternally grateful,” he said in an off-hand way. It seemed kind of insincere to me. The man was obviously trying to butter me up. “But when all is said and done . . .” He heaved a forlorn—and entirely unbelievable—sigh. “I’m simply a man—”
“An imaginary man.”
He ignored me. “A man looking for the one woman who will make his life complete. A man longing for love and all the joy it will bring for the rest of my days.” His voice rose in a theatrical manner. “I am nothing more than a man in search of a happy ending.”
Oh yeah, right. “Hasn’t your tendency toward sarcasm gotten you into trouble before?”
“I’m not being sarcastic. Overly dramatic perhaps, but I am being completely honest. And you well know it.” He flashed that wicked, irresistible smile I had written for him. “And don’t you think you’ve put me through enough? Don’t you think being—in the parlance of your time period—dumped by three different women has earned an ending better than we shall see? We shall see indeed,” he added under his breath.
“Well, we shall,” I said defensively. “I mean we will.”
He sniffed. “I deserve better.”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I thought for a moment. “I admit, you were a good secondary character.”
“I was brilliant.”
“But they don’t always turn out to be good heroes,” I warned.
“I’m confident you can count on me.”
“I’ll think about it, okay?” I do hate to commit too quickly to a figment of my imagination.
“That will have to do, I suppose.” Again, he aimed his killer smile at me. “For the moment.”
I managed a weak smile of my own. I knew the man wasn’t going to leave me alone until I gave him what he wanted. And I knew he’d win in the end. What can I say? I’m a sucker for a perfect hero, or rather a hero who thinks he’s perfect.