perhaps it could be a beginning.” Isabella’s hands curled inward. “Oh, I was a fool ever to look twice at—”
“Don’t look back.” Suzanne laid a hand over Isabella’s own. “That way lies madness. This is the time to look forward.”
Isabella bit her lip. “Sometimes I’m almost happy, and then I feel this dreadful guilt welling up. Sometimes I think I owe it to him to tell him—”
“No.” Suzanne’s fingers tightened over Isabella’s gloved wrist. “All you would do is destroy him and yourself and your child.”
“But I’ve wronged—”
“You have a chance at happiness.”
“But I’m not sure that I deserve—”
“Your husband does.”
Uncertainty flickered through Isabella’s gaze. “When I look at him, I remember—”
“It will get easier.” And perhaps it would. Isabella’s betrayal of her husband was in the past.
Unlike Suzanne’s own.
Suzanne found Malcolm—her husband—standing by the windows with Fitzroy Somerset.
“Happy Christmas, Mrs. Rannoch,” Fitzroy said.
“Happy Christmas, Lord Fitzroy.” Suzanne smiled at him. He was secretary to the commander of the British forces, son of an English duke. The antithesis of everything she was fighting against. And a very thoughtful man.
“Must be off. Before Wellington left for Cádiz he left me with strict instructions about whom to keep happy. Enjoy your first English Christmas, Mrs. Rannoch. Don’t forget your promise, Malcolm.”
“What promise is that?” Suzanne said, watching Fitzroy move off.
“Just Fitzroy’s teasing.”
“I like him,” Suzanne said.
“Yes, Fitzroy’s a good man. Very tolerant of my eccentricities.”
Suzanne flashed a smile up at her husband and tucked her arm through his own. “There’s one good thing to come out of all this. Isabella Flores has realized her husband’s a much better man than Edward Linford. Which of course has brought on an upwelling of guilt.”
“I hope you’ve talked her out of the urge to confess.”
“I think I’ve convinced her some secrets are better left secrets.” She found herself pressing her face against Malcolm’s shoulder. “It’s comforting to know some marriages can change for the better.”
“I don’t think any marriage is static, for better or worse.” He glanced across the room. Charlotte Haddon was laughing with Lieutenant Sanderson, her husband’s cousin. “Charlotte seems happier since her husband’s been sent to Freneda.”
“Yes, she does.” Suzanne tilted her head back to look at him. “You wouldn’t happen to have had anything to do with him being transferred, would you?”
“Before Wellington left for Cádiz, I might possibly have mentioned to him that Lisbon would be more peaceful with Haddon and Linford out of it.”
“You’re wonderful, Malcolm.”
“You’re biased.”
“Well, I am your wife.” The words still sounded strange, yet they came out with surprising ease.
Malcolm grinned and drew her forward. “Come on. I need your help.”
“To do what?”
“My promise to Fitzroy. I said I’d play the piano.”
“And you want me to turn the pages?”
“Oh no.” He turned to her with a smile that from him was as intimate as a kiss. “I thought we could play a duet.”
HISTORICAL NOTE
Sir Charles Stuart did entertain a great deal, but I have fudged a bit by referring to his residence as the British embassy. Stuart was the head of the British mission to Portugal but was Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary, not ambassador. I trust Stuart, who was not one to stand on ceremony, would understand. I have also exercised a bit of authorial license in putting the Marquess of Wellington in Lisbon in early December of 1812—Wellington was in Cádiz later in December and was likely there during the time frame of this story as well. For details about Lisbon in December 1812 I am indebted largely to The Letters of Colonel Sir Augustus John Simon Fraser, K.C.B., London: Longman,
“Don’t look back.” Suzanne laid a hand over Isabella’s own. “That way lies madness. This is the time to look forward.”
Isabella bit her lip. “Sometimes I’m almost happy, and then I feel this dreadful guilt welling up. Sometimes I think I owe it to him to tell him—”
“No.” Suzanne’s fingers tightened over Isabella’s gloved wrist. “All you would do is destroy him and yourself and your child.”
“But I’ve wronged—”
“You have a chance at happiness.”
“But I’m not sure that I deserve—”
“Your husband does.”
Uncertainty flickered through Isabella’s gaze. “When I look at him, I remember—”
“It will get easier.” And perhaps it would. Isabella’s betrayal of her husband was in the past.
Unlike Suzanne’s own.
Suzanne found Malcolm—her husband—standing by the windows with Fitzroy Somerset.
“Happy Christmas, Mrs. Rannoch,” Fitzroy said.
“Happy Christmas, Lord Fitzroy.” Suzanne smiled at him. He was secretary to the commander of the British forces, son of an English duke. The antithesis of everything she was fighting against. And a very thoughtful man.
“Must be off. Before Wellington left for Cádiz he left me with strict instructions about whom to keep happy. Enjoy your first English Christmas, Mrs. Rannoch. Don’t forget your promise, Malcolm.”
“What promise is that?” Suzanne said, watching Fitzroy move off.
“Just Fitzroy’s teasing.”
“I like him,” Suzanne said.
“Yes, Fitzroy’s a good man. Very tolerant of my eccentricities.”
Suzanne flashed a smile up at her husband and tucked her arm through his own. “There’s one good thing to come out of all this. Isabella Flores has realized her husband’s a much better man than Edward Linford. Which of course has brought on an upwelling of guilt.”
“I hope you’ve talked her out of the urge to confess.”
“I think I’ve convinced her some secrets are better left secrets.” She found herself pressing her face against Malcolm’s shoulder. “It’s comforting to know some marriages can change for the better.”
“I don’t think any marriage is static, for better or worse.” He glanced across the room. Charlotte Haddon was laughing with Lieutenant Sanderson, her husband’s cousin. “Charlotte seems happier since her husband’s been sent to Freneda.”
“Yes, she does.” Suzanne tilted her head back to look at him. “You wouldn’t happen to have had anything to do with him being transferred, would you?”
“Before Wellington left for Cádiz, I might possibly have mentioned to him that Lisbon would be more peaceful with Haddon and Linford out of it.”
“You’re wonderful, Malcolm.”
“You’re biased.”
“Well, I am your wife.” The words still sounded strange, yet they came out with surprising ease.
Malcolm grinned and drew her forward. “Come on. I need your help.”
“To do what?”
“My promise to Fitzroy. I said I’d play the piano.”
“And you want me to turn the pages?”
“Oh no.” He turned to her with a smile that from him was as intimate as a kiss. “I thought we could play a duet.”
HISTORICAL NOTE
Sir Charles Stuart did entertain a great deal, but I have fudged a bit by referring to his residence as the British embassy. Stuart was the head of the British mission to Portugal but was Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary, not ambassador. I trust Stuart, who was not one to stand on ceremony, would understand. I have also exercised a bit of authorial license in putting the Marquess of Wellington in Lisbon in early December of 1812—Wellington was in Cádiz later in December and was likely there during the time frame of this story as well. For details about Lisbon in December 1812 I am indebted largely to The Letters of Colonel Sir Augustus John Simon Fraser, K.C.B., London: Longman,
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