He turned almost by instinct to his left after a couple of miles and leapt the gate into the pasture. And he drew up on the reins and patted his horse’s neck. And looked back and saw her in memory sailing over the gate after him with a foot to spare. He bent his head forward and closed his eyes.
No, it was not easy. He had had a sleepless night, his arms and his body aching for her. And he remembered again the softness and fragrance of her hair, the smooth silkiness of her skin, the fullness of her breasts, her small waist and flaring hips, her long, slim legs, her hot and eager mouth, her warm and wet and womanly depths.
And he remembered her quiet and sleepy and warm in his arms between lovings, smiling at him in the dim candlelight, words between them quite unnecessary. And holding his hand in the carriage, her shoulder resting just below the level of his.
Fleur. God. Fleur.
If Sybil died, the thought came unbidden, he would be able to marry Fleur.
He shook his head violently and turned his horse for the long walk up through the pasture. He was not going to let her die. She was his wife and ill and unhappy. He was not going to let her die.
He was not going to think of Fleur. He had no right to think of her. He was married to Sybil.
He followed the route he had taken on a previous occasion with Fleur. And yet, after passing through the gate back into the park, he took a different direction until his horse stepped out onto the path on the south side of the lake, opposite the pavilion on the island.
Where he had waltzed with Fleur during the outdoor ball.
Just there. On the path. She had been terrified of him, terrified of his touch. She had closed her eyes very tightly. And then the music and the atmosphere had caught her up in their magic as they had caught him up, and they had waltzed as if they had been made to dance together all their lives.
Beautiful, beautiful Fleur in her plain blue gown and with her glorious fire-gold hair.
He stared at the spot where they had danced. But there was no music, no lanternlight. No Fleur.
Just a sunlit path and the sounds of the breeze in the trees and of birds singing.
He swallowed twice and turned his horse for home.
Sybil had gone into Wollaston that morning. He must go to her to see that she was safely back and none the worse for her outing. It was such a beautiful warm day. Perhaps she would like to take a short walk, leaning on his arm.
And perhaps hell would freeze over too.
THEY WERE TO LEAVE at the end of September, more than three months after Fleur had left Willoughby Hall. The Duke of Ridgeway was thankful to have at least part of the autumn in England. He wandered about his land, sometimes on foot, sometimes on horseback, sometimes alone, sometimes with his daughter and the collie if they were on foot glorying in the changing colors of the leaves and the many-colored carpet underfoot. Pamela liked to walk on the crisp leaves with him, crunching them underfoot.
He knew that he would miss it all during the winter. He was reminded of the long months and years of the campaigns against Bonaparte and his homesickness then as he traveled about with the armies.
But they must leave. Sybil did not want to go, and stubbornly declared that she would not do so. But this was one matter on which he would exert his authority and insist on obedience. If she had no will to live, then he would have the will for her. He would inject his own strength into her and make her well again.
She did not show many outer signs of her illness. With her guests gone, she was restless again and constantly out visiting, sometimes taking Pamela with her, though more often going alone. When she invited guests to the house—he rarely did so for fear of overtiring her—she sparkled and was gay. Duncan Chamberlain looked distinctly uncomfortable one evening when she chose to flirt with him.
But there were times—sometimes whole days together—when a high fever and the coughing kept her confined to her own rooms.
The duke visited her there daily, asking after her health, trying to draw her into conversation. She was not to be drawn.
And she would not go to Italy or see any of his doctors, she declared whenever he raised the subject.
She kept to her rooms the day before that set for their departure. Peter Houghton took her mail there to her late in the morning, including a letter from a friend in London with whom she often corresponded.
It was a cold and blustery day, one that constantly threatened rain. It was high time they were on their way to warmer climes, the duke thought as he left the nursery, where all was excitement and half-packed trunks, and made his way downstairs to pay his daily call on his wife. She had not come to luncheon.
She had gone out before luncheon, her maid told him. Armitage had thought that her grace had gone only for a short walk, but she must have misunderstood the matter. Her grace must have taken the carriage and gone into town.