Free Ravishing the Heiress by Sherry Thomas Page A

their former selves.
    All the same, her heart broke for him, into a thousand pieces.
    T he isolation of the cabin, no doubt excellent for keeping private pains private, was unhelpful in every other respect. Lord Fitzhugh had no duties to perform,no obligations that required him to adhere to a proper schedule, and no friends or family before whom he needed to keep up an appearance of sobriety and normalcy.
    There was nothing left to smash in his room—having axed his bedstead to kindling the previous week, he now slept on a pallet on the floor. Millie feared he’d start on the parlor. Instead, he plunged into a deep lethargy. The whisky, at first only a nocturnal friend, was now his constant companion.
    Millie was inexperienced in such darker aspects of life. But she had no doubt that he was sliding faster and faster down a dangerous path. He needed help, badly—and soon. Yet when she sat down to compose an appeal, she had no idea to whom she ought to address the letter.
    Could Mrs. Townsend persuade her brother to stop drinking? Could Colonel Clements? Certainly no one in the Graves family could be of any assistance. And even if Millie were to swallow what remained of her pride and beg Miss Pelham for help, would Miss Pelham’s family allow her to become involved again in the earl’s affairs?
    Via Mrs. Graves’s pragmatic advice, Millie had been equipped to deal with a remote husband, disdainful servants, and a Society wary of yet another heiress breaching its defenses. No one, however, had ever thought to teach her what to do when her husband was determined to shove his youth and vitality down the throat of a whisky bottle and throw it all away.
    She abandoned her letter and grabbed her hat. The swollen clouds that blanketed the sky promised rain, but she didn’t care. She had to get out of the cabin. And if she returned a drowned rat, developed pneumonia, and expired before the end of the month, well, so much the better for—
    She stopped dead.
    Her husband, who had not been outside in days, sat on the front steps of the cabin, staring into the barrel of a rifle.
    “What—what are you doing?” she heard herself ask, her voice high and reedy.
    “Nothing,” he said, without turning around, even as his hand caressed the barrel.
    Slowly, not daring to make a sound, she shrank back into the cabin. And there, for the first time in her life, she clutched her heart. Her throat closed; her head spun.
    He was contemplating suicide.
    F itz had lost track of time and he minded not at all. The past was infinitely preferable to the present, or the future. And even better when the boundary of reality and fantasy blurred.
    He was no longer anywhere near the Lake District, but at the Pelham home, engaged in an animated conversation with Isabelle, while her mother embroidered at the far end of the room.
    She was so interesting, Isabelle, and so interested. Her eyes shone like stars, but her beauty was the winsomeness of morning, bright and glorious, full of heat and verve. And when he looked upon her his heart was weightless with joy, rising to the sky like a balloon.
    “I need to speak to you, Lord Fitzhugh,” she said.
    Lord Fitzhugh? Lord Fitzhugh was his third cousin twice removed.
    “What is it?”
    “You cannot go on like this.”
    “Why not?” He was bewildered. This was exactly how he’dlike to go on, a carefree young man, with the girl he loved by his side.
    “If you won’t think of yourself, then please think of your family. Your sisters will be devastated.”
    He opened his eyes. Strange, had he been holding a conversation with his eyes closed all the while? And when had the room become so dark, so full of shadow and gloom?
    He was lying down. And she, above him, was as close as the reach of his hand. He lifted his arm and touched her face. She shivered. Her skin was softer than the memory of spring. He’d missed her so. It was her. It was always, always her.
    Very gently, so as not to startle her, he pulled