Vivian Roycroft Read Online Free Page A
Author: Mischief on Albemarle
her home life was likely to deteriorate. Abominably.
But no man she'd ever met attracted her the way Fitz did. No one else warmed her soul and filled her heart; everyone else paled to boring in the comparison. Unfortunately, he still viewed her as his childhood friend, viewed and treated her as such, with all the infantile hectoring and raillery implicit in that perspective. Their relationship hadn't changed since he'd been thirteen and she twelve.
Most importantly, he refused to look at her that way . In the manner of a man with a woman.
Just once. Just one time, one single iota of the most miniscule of moments, and that would be all the opening she'd need. She'd return his look, across a crowded ballroom if necessary, under the noses of the entire ton, in front of Papa, even, and blister the consequences. Because in that little bit of time, she'd convince him of her undying love. And Fitz, of course, would never let her down. Not knowingly, at least.
And there lay the rub. He'd no idea what he did to her, how he set her insides to smoldering just by being Fitz. He couldn't. Otherwise, he'd surely change his behavior. Or return her affection. Surely.
If her love hadn't died under the hammering it had already taken, then its chances of doing so in the future were slim.
The window glass, cool from April's blustering, warmed between the sunshine and her forehead. Beryl sighed and leaned back against the window seat's wall. The edge of the flowered calico cushion, padding her anatomy against the pitiless bench, gleamed with more life than the poor little handkerchief.
She'd no idea how to change the situation. None.
Fitz, being the male in her yearned-for equation, had the requirement of making the first move. But blithely, he continued their pitiful friendship without ever doing so. Without wanting to, perhaps? He'd no reason to marry, no incentive of finance or companionship or inheritance. His position and his purse were clear of encumbrance and entailment, and his cheerfulness guaranteed him friends across Mayfair. The only enticements that could direct his steps toward the altar would be those of love.
Discouraging state of affairs, no matter the immortality of her love for him. Infuriating. Frustrating. Worst of all, if she gave him that look first, she risked not only his ridicule, but that of good society, as well. If he ever suspected her secret, without first being induced to suffer a similar fate, then—
—then he'd do what Fitz always did. He'd tease.
It seemed he'd never take that next step. Never see beyond their childhood friendship to the delights adulthood could hold for them. Never look at her that way .
Never admit that his behavior was wrong.
So perhaps it was time to lock away her disappointed, aching heart, and move on.
Which brought her to…
Cumberland.
A fearsome thought, that, and it gave her the cold tremblies deep inside. No matter his charm, intelligence, wit, sensibilities, amiability — no matter any of his possible virtues, Cumberland's reputation was dubious, at best. His title didn't impel her; she'd never expected a fairy-tale life of being raised to that breathless echelon of the peerage and had difficulty believing in it now, despite his toe-curling smile. Nor did his person draw her in that way, handsome though he most assuredly was, with black curls atop his collar and pale blue eyes that gleamed when he smiled. Nor his wealth, which could be no greater than the Earl of Fitzwilliam's, one of the richest men in England.
Even if he was a foreign prince.
Perhaps she could discipline her heart, like an errant horse, and constrain it with firmness. Perhaps she could forget Fitz, or at least let him go, and turn her thoughts to another. She'd never ridden with the hounds, but she'd never shied at a fence, either. Perhaps…
Well. Perhaps.
Chapter Three
Tuesday, March 16, 1813 continued
An unseasonable sky of that perfect pale blue ensured the fashionable crowd riding
But no man she'd ever met attracted her the way Fitz did. No one else warmed her soul and filled her heart; everyone else paled to boring in the comparison. Unfortunately, he still viewed her as his childhood friend, viewed and treated her as such, with all the infantile hectoring and raillery implicit in that perspective. Their relationship hadn't changed since he'd been thirteen and she twelve.
Most importantly, he refused to look at her that way . In the manner of a man with a woman.
Just once. Just one time, one single iota of the most miniscule of moments, and that would be all the opening she'd need. She'd return his look, across a crowded ballroom if necessary, under the noses of the entire ton, in front of Papa, even, and blister the consequences. Because in that little bit of time, she'd convince him of her undying love. And Fitz, of course, would never let her down. Not knowingly, at least.
And there lay the rub. He'd no idea what he did to her, how he set her insides to smoldering just by being Fitz. He couldn't. Otherwise, he'd surely change his behavior. Or return her affection. Surely.
If her love hadn't died under the hammering it had already taken, then its chances of doing so in the future were slim.
The window glass, cool from April's blustering, warmed between the sunshine and her forehead. Beryl sighed and leaned back against the window seat's wall. The edge of the flowered calico cushion, padding her anatomy against the pitiless bench, gleamed with more life than the poor little handkerchief.
She'd no idea how to change the situation. None.
Fitz, being the male in her yearned-for equation, had the requirement of making the first move. But blithely, he continued their pitiful friendship without ever doing so. Without wanting to, perhaps? He'd no reason to marry, no incentive of finance or companionship or inheritance. His position and his purse were clear of encumbrance and entailment, and his cheerfulness guaranteed him friends across Mayfair. The only enticements that could direct his steps toward the altar would be those of love.
Discouraging state of affairs, no matter the immortality of her love for him. Infuriating. Frustrating. Worst of all, if she gave him that look first, she risked not only his ridicule, but that of good society, as well. If he ever suspected her secret, without first being induced to suffer a similar fate, then—
—then he'd do what Fitz always did. He'd tease.
It seemed he'd never take that next step. Never see beyond their childhood friendship to the delights adulthood could hold for them. Never look at her that way .
Never admit that his behavior was wrong.
So perhaps it was time to lock away her disappointed, aching heart, and move on.
Which brought her to…
Cumberland.
A fearsome thought, that, and it gave her the cold tremblies deep inside. No matter his charm, intelligence, wit, sensibilities, amiability — no matter any of his possible virtues, Cumberland's reputation was dubious, at best. His title didn't impel her; she'd never expected a fairy-tale life of being raised to that breathless echelon of the peerage and had difficulty believing in it now, despite his toe-curling smile. Nor did his person draw her in that way, handsome though he most assuredly was, with black curls atop his collar and pale blue eyes that gleamed when he smiled. Nor his wealth, which could be no greater than the Earl of Fitzwilliam's, one of the richest men in England.
Even if he was a foreign prince.
Perhaps she could discipline her heart, like an errant horse, and constrain it with firmness. Perhaps she could forget Fitz, or at least let him go, and turn her thoughts to another. She'd never ridden with the hounds, but she'd never shied at a fence, either. Perhaps…
Well. Perhaps.
Chapter Three
Tuesday, March 16, 1813 continued
An unseasonable sky of that perfect pale blue ensured the fashionable crowd riding
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