Page 5 of A Midwinter Wager

"Do you think she might be in love?"

Cesca nodded, sighed, and snuggled deeper into his embrace.

"Who could it be?" he mused, welcoming the feel of her body pressed against his. "An imaginary hero in a novel? One of the passionate poets currently raising wistful sighs in the breast of every susceptible female? Or a real person? And if it is a real person to whom the poems are addressed, then is the fellow writing verses back to her?"

"Papa wouldn't approve. If it weren't for the fact it would make me a hypocrite, because of what I'm doing with you, I wouldn't approve either. Oh, Fitz!"

Her voice came out with a tremor, and he held her tighter. "What is it, sweeting?"

"I don't know how I can bear it when you go away. What will I do with myself?"

"You'll be busy enough looking after everything and everyone here," he said, releasing her as the maid's footstep was heard on the stairs. "I know how hard you work. But now you’ll have some fun as well—solving the mystery of to whom Alicia's addressing her poetry."

He laughed lightly, but a knot of unease tightened his gut. There was something about the way Alicia looked at him sometimes. Calculatingly. And she was prepared to leave her sickbed on his account.

He shook his head at the ridiculousness of the thought. At four-and-twenty, he was far too old to attract the interest of a seventeen-year-old, and surely, she couldn't help but be aware how much he and Cesca cared for each other.

So even if she did have a secret yearning for him, it could never amount to anything.

Because there was only room for one woman in his heart, now and for always.