Page 14 of A Midwinter Wager

Chapter 9

Fitz spentthe rest of the day pacing around the grounds of Beaulieu Manor, racked with regret. He must be in the middle of some cruel nightmare, but no matter how often he struck his knuckles on the rough trunks of the lime trees, the pain failed to wake him from it.

His offer for Cesca had been refused, and all hope was hemorrhaging out of him.

He dreaded to think what she must be going through and wondered if there was anything more he could have said, anything more he could have done, to protect her from hurt.

Eventually, he decided that having failed with Cesca's father, he would confront his own. Surely the earl would understand he couldn't possibly marry Alicia. Papa could put pressure on Heathcote—in a friendly fashion, of course—to allow his elder daughter to marry first, as would be expected. And of course, they must be allowed to marry, for Cesca loved him truly, whereas Alicia was just deluded.

If indeed Cesca loved him. After his failure earlier in the day, he could well understand if she no longer did. The pain of that was fiercer than anything he could imagine, so he stalked back into the house and burst into the morning room, where his father reclined on the chaise longue, reading.

Fitz took a calming breath. “Papa, how do you feel this afternoon?”

His father folded up his newspaper. “Weak, confused and tired. Very tired, after yesterday’s events.”

“I understand. A regrettable incident. But please, can we talk about it further? I have something important to say.”

“Only if it’s to tell me Heathcote’s accepted your request to court Miss Alicia. Anything else can wait.”

This was not an auspicious beginning. Fitz sharpened his determination, pulled up a seat and recounted his conversation with Heathcote. But if he’d been hoping for support from his father, he was much mistaken.

The earl’s countenance darkened with annoyance. “You were to ask for Miss Alicia’s hand, not Miss Francesca’s. I made myself absolutely clear on that score.”

Damn it—Papa had become increasingly fractious since his stroke and had a tendency to treat him as if he were still in leading-strings. Fitz licked his torn knuckles, relishing the sting; it helped him keep his temper, for he couldn't afford to alienate his father. Nor did he want to exacerbate his condition.

“You need to understand what happened yesterday was entirely engineered by Miss Alicia. It seems she’s nursed a tendre for me for some time. But it is Cesca whom I wish to marry, not Alicia.”

“But Heathcote won’t let you. I quite comprehend him—he wishes to avoid a scandal.”

Fitz bit his lip. There wouldn’t be a scandal if his cousins hadn't broadcast the news at the first opportunity. “I appreciate that. But I will have Cesca, and she will have me. Although we may have to wait until one of us can change Heathcote's mind."

"So, to clarify, Heathcote wants an engagement between you and Alicia.”

“He does.”

“And this engagement is to last at the very least six months until the gossip has died down?”

Fitz nodded. His father dabbed at some stray saliva with a handkerchief, then subjected him to an angry glare. "You do realize if you don’t plan to marry Alicia Heathcote, it will be a long wait before you can court another woman without seriously embarrassing me.”

This was true. “I’ve no wish to embarrass—”

“It’s a wait neither of us can afford. You must continue the line, my boy, and sire a son as soon as possible. I could have died a couple of months ago. There was no warning—I was simply struck down by the hand of God. How do you know the same thing won't happen to you? A sharpshooter on a battlefield, a cannonball, a sword? If Heathcote won’t let you marry the older daughter, then you must marry the younger. And the sooner the better, so you can set up your nursery.”

“But—”

His father waved a dismissive hand. “If you can’t change Heathcote’s mind, who can? I’m not well enough to get involved in all of this. I thought you understood.”

Fitz shivered. He couldn’t risk precipitating another seizure in his father. “Forgive, me, Papa,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll go away and think on what you’ve said. Please don’t worry.”

“I shan’t.” His father picked up the newspaper again. “I know you’ll do the right thing in the end. Now bring me a cushion for my neck and leave me be.”

Fitz did as required, then left. If only he could think of a solution—this uncertainty was frustrating him past all endurance. Stepping outside into the gardens, he set off down the gravel path leading to the rhododendron grove, where the bushes were coming into glorious bloom. Gazing at their exotic beauty, he pictured Cesca's face and knew he couldn't give up. He'd sleep on it, and by the morning, he’d know what to do, and everything could be sorted out before he had to return to his regiment.

But sleep refused to come. If he lay on his back, he just stared at the ceiling, worrying. When he rolled onto his side, he stared instead at the spare pillow and imagined Cesca lying there beside him, with her golden hair spread across the pillow as she gazed at him lovingly with her long-lashed hazel eyes, smiling that sweet smile of hers.

When dawn sunlight invaded the shutters, the incessant song of a chaffinch drove him out of bed, newly-determined and buoyant, despite his lack of sleep. He'd head for Fernley Place early, before the family was up, and whisk Cesca away. They'd be married, as originally planned, and she'd accompany him to Flanders if she had a mind to, putting her well out of the reach of Alicia and their respective fathers. Cesca would leave a note to say she was upset and had gone to visit a relative—they'd decide who later—and he'd write to Papa to say he'd been called back to his regiment urgently and regretted not having had a chance to say farewell.

By the time their deception was discovered, the earl would be physically much stronger and less likely to fall prey to another seizure. Heathcote would have had time to see sense, so there was every hope they would be forgiven for their precipitous flight.