A Dance in Moonlight (The Fitzhugh Trilogy) by Sherry Thomas Read Free Book Online Page A

immediately assume that she’d decided to come back to Doyle’s Grange because she wanted to be close to Fitz’s lookalike.
    It would be impossible to make them see otherwise. And should word get back to Fitz, she would die of mortification, to have him believe that she wanted to hold on to him so badly anyone who looked like him would do.
    And it would be a tremendous insult to Mr. Fitzwilliam too, to have everyone assume he was but a replica of Fitz, when nothing could be further from the truth.
    “Let me think about it,” she murmured, the wine and the lateness of the hour making her drowsy again.
    “Yes, think about it,” he said softly.
     

     
     
    WHEN MRS. ENGLEWOOD’S BREATHS had become soft and even, he lifted her into his arms.
    “Careful, old widower,” she mumbled, her words slow and sleepy.
    “Ha,” he countered. “This grandpa still has a spring in his step.”
    He carried her into the house, up the stairs, and back into her bedroom. She thanked him indistinctly as he set her down on the bed. He took off her slippers, straightened the hem of her nightgown, and covered her with a blanket.
    She sighed softly and slept on.
    Light from the oil lamp still flickered. Her hair had tumbled loose in the course of the evening. Now midnight black strands of it streaked across the pillow.
    But as he looked closer, he realized that not every strand of her hair was the same vibrant raven hue. His dear Mrs. Englewood had a few white hairs that gleamed silver in the lamplight.
    He wondered if premature graying ran in her family. If by the time she was forty, she would have a head of snow-white hair.
    He wanted to see it. He wanted to be the one to brush her hair and jokingly count her last few remaining black strands. And then to kiss her upon her silver head.
    “Come back,” he murmured. “And soon.”
     

Chapter Five
     

     
    IN THE MORNING, IT TOOK ISABELLE a minute to realize where she was.
    She yawned, sat up, and walked about. The house was empty, Mr. Fitzwilliam nowhere to be seen. And he was thorough in removing the evidence of his presence: The wine bottle, wine glasses and corkscrew had all been removed, as well as his hand candle. Even that consulting detective, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, would be hard pressed to conclude that anyone other than Isabelle had been in the house the previous night.
    What of their rapport? Had it too wilted in the harsh light of the day? The next time she saw Mr. Fitzwilliam, if she ever did, would she be obliged to pretend that theirs was the most incidental of acquaintances, rather than the sublime friendship it had been, however briefly?
    She sat on the swing seat for a few minutes, gazing at the rowan. Its season of flowering had passed; now hundreds of clusters of berries hung from the branches, some still pale gold, others already turning a riotous red.
    Slowly she returned to the house. Just as slowly, she made her way upstairs. But as she reentered the bedroom to gather her belongings, she saw an envelope addressed to her on the nightstand. She snatched it up and tore the seal.
    My Dear Mrs. Englewood,
    I hope you have slept well. And I hope now that you have awakened, you still think upon last night with as much wonder and fondness as I do. If not, allow me to assure you that I will have exited Doyle’s Grange with the utmost care and will not speak a word of our friendship to anyone.
    But if you do not regret our hours together, I shall be delighted to hear from you, as frequently as you’d care to write, and follow your progress through the sometimes treacherous shoals of life.
    Your devoted servant,
    Ralston Fitzwilliam
    P.S. You may post your letters to Stanton House, Up Aubry, and they will reach me anywhere.
    P.P.S. As an inducement, I dangle before you the late Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s comment on Little Red Riding Hood’s grandmother’s cottage.
    She touched his letter to her cheek and smiled. So it was reciprocal, this camaraderie of theirs, and not a