Page 12 of A Midwinter Wager

An idea struck. “Could we not elope? Once married, there’d be nothing either of our fathers could do.”

"I have the special license, don’t I?” he said. “So, we wouldn’t need to elope. But tell me—are we brave enough, are we selfish enough, to go against the wishes of both our families and cobble together a hasty marriage under such unpropitious circumstances? What if I were to be killed? Would anyone be willing to support you when we’ve both gone against the wishes of our parents?”

She bit her lip. Papa would be furious and she didn’t want to upset him. Fitz could be disinherited—and though she was more than happy to live with him in impoverished obscurity, she had no desire to besmirch his good name. This was truly dreadful. The sick feeling returned, and with it the threat of tears.

"I mean to fight this,” he assured her. “But it'll take time. There's another issue to resolve, and that's the matter of your sister's reputation. The rumor mill grinds fast, and it won't be long before the entire ton hears that Viscount Lonsdale groped a lady publicly and refused to do the decent thing by her. I’ll be snubbed for a while, but I’ll come through it. Alicia’s reputation, however, will not be so quickly restored. This situation will reflect both on your father and, alas, on you. Pragmatically speaking, it looks as if an engagement may be my only option. For now.”

“Oh, Fitz, you have such a good heart,” she said, her voice breaking. If only Papa hadn’t got into such a pet over yesterday’s public spectacle! Maybe he just needed time to calm down and think rationally. Surely, with a little gentle persuasion, he’d relent.

“The idea of being engaged to Alicia—even temporarily—is abhorrent but I’ll still get to see you. If I don’t agree, your father forbids me the house.” Fitz ran a hand through his hair, his chest heaving with emotion. “Lord, I feel like an actor in a Greek tragedy, or a character in a romantic poem, at the end of which everyone dies.”

"Then we must both be actors and pretend our ardor has cooled while we try to work out what to do. And who knows, Alicia may change her mind, and petition Papa to free her from the betrothal." She heaved a deep sigh. It was easy enough to say it, but would she be able to conceal her feelings for Fitz? Could she pretend to be happy for Alicia?

“Kiss me,” she pleaded. “It may be a long time before we can be together like this again.”

“I can’t.” Turning slowly, he rested his forehead against hers until his lips were a mere whisper away. “I daren’t. I wouldn’t be able to stop. Don’t make it harder for me, I beg you.” He stood, turned his back on her, and walked away.

Was he really going through with it? She stared after him in disbelief, praying for the gods to intercede, or to strike her dead on the spot. Anything to diffuse the pain that attacked her body like a million steel knives. Then she remembered the love poems. Could she use them to convince Papa that Alicia had engineered yesterday’s accident, with the specific aim of ensnaring Fitz? It was worth a try. Anything was worth a try.

Alicia would never marry Fitz.

Not while she, Francesca Heathcote, still had breath in her body.