Chapter Two
Three Months Later
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”
FITZ
I DRIFTED AMONG THE HORDE of people in Terminal 3 at Heathrow Airport, waiting for Monroe to arrive early Monday morning. She was, of course, a day late because another one of her attempts to help someone went awry. She just had to guide a single mother flying by herself with young children to their gate at JFK Airport. In typical Monroe fashion, not only had she taken the woman to the wrong gate, making her miss her flight, but she’d missed her own flight as well while trying to correct the mistake.
Originally, I was supposed to pick her up at Manchester Airport and we were to spend the day together at my estate before heading to this forsaken Pride and Prejudice Park, but perhaps it was for the best she was late. Mother still lived on the estate and didn’t care for the woman from whom I’ve carefully guarded my true feelings for the past thirteen years. And I wanted nothing to come between Monroe and me for the next week—or ever, for that matter. I was past pretending I didn’t love her, even though nothing about us made sense. Monroe is maddening, chaotic, kind to a fault, and lovely. So lovely. I, on the other hand, am broody, meticulous, and frequently coldhearted—unless it comes to Monroe. She has a way of bringing out my human side.
For her, and only her, would I wait among the sea of gawking eyes. Ever since that blasted magazine named me one of Britain’s hottest, most eligible bachelors, I’ve felt as if I lived in a fishbowl. People, mostly women, seem to always be snapping pictures of me now with their phones while giggling and whispering to their companions. It irritated me to no end. If only I could sue the magazine for libel and make them remove that ridiculous article. I wasn’t available for anyone except Monroe—that was, if she would have me. We’d never ventured outside the lines of friendship. My mother would be categorically against the union—which was regrettable—but ever since Monroe had gotten engaged to that idiot Tony, I realized I couldn’t stand by and let her slip away. For all these years, I’d deceived myself that I’d be able to wish her well and love her secretly from a distance, understanding that a romantic relationship between us would be complicated, perhaps even unwise, but I was utterly mistaken. When she became engaged, it gutted me. On the flip side, a relief like none other consumed when me when the wedding was called off. I’d been hoping our time together this week would prove to us both that while we were probably a study in contradictions, we could overcome the obstacles standing in our way.
There was just something about Monroe. From the first time I met her—when she’d tripped over her book bag, jumped up, and said, “Ta-da!”, smiling nervously at the catty girls ready to eat her alive—she’d sparked something in me. A protectiveness I’d never felt before washed over me as I went to her aid, knowing that despite my standoffish nature, I had influence because of my name and title. And let’s not forget the money. I knew if those girls thought Monroe was a friend of mine, it would at least give her a fighting chance, especially given that Monroe was not the typical student. Despite the uniforms we all had to wear, it wasn’t hard to tell which students were there on scholarship or receiving some type of financial assistance. And being a foreigner made Monroe an even easier target.
That one act forged us together in ways I hadn’t foreseen, and now I couldn’t imagine my life without her. Even if I was standing near a group of tittering women pointing at me.
“Your Grace, can we get a picture with you?” one of the silly women had the audacity to ask me.
I turned, my face already pinched into what Monroe referred to as my resting Darcy face, ready to tell the woman to bugger off, until a commotion stirred among the crowd. No doubt it meant Monroe had arrived—chaos was her constant companion.
I turned to see what the woman, who vexed me in ways she was completely unaware of, had done this time.
The crowd was pointing, some standing on their toes, making it hard for me to see, so I stepped around the throng to find Monroe with several articles of clothing draped around her shoulders and at least three bonnets on top of her head, lugging a large pink suitcase behind her.
I shook my head and walked over to help her, bracing myself for the story behind her odd appearance. I was sure it involved her helping someone.
Despite her unconventional deportment, there was no denying the beauty beneath the layers of clothing and bonnets. Her dark wavy hair spilled out of the bonnets and cascaded past her shoulders. I’d had the pleasure a few times of running my fingers through her thick, silky mane while trying to comfort her. I longed for more opportunities to gaze into her deep-brown eyes that shone with kindness, curiosity, and at times, mischief. Even more, I wanted to cup her creamy cheeks in my hands and capture the supple pink lips that had taunted me over the years.
When Monroe noticed me, she smiled and waved her arms, making one bonnet fall off her head, even while two remained. “Fitz!”
A collective gasp sounded from those nearby who recognized me and were aghast that anyone would address me so informally in public. Admittedly, her annoying nickname for me had taken some getting used to on my part, but now I couldn’t imagine her calling me anything but Fitz. I certainly didn’t wish her to call me Your Grace . It was a title I, myself, wasn’t yet used to. Not quite a year ago, it had belonged to my father, God rest his callous soul.
Whispers followed me as I made my way to Monroe: “Does His Grace actually know that woman?” “Please tell me he’s not dating her.” “Could you imagine her as the Duchess of Blackthorne?”
If I were being honest, the answer was no, I couldn’t imagine Monroe as a duchess. But as irreverent and maddening as she was, she was the only woman to whom I wished to give the title. No doubt we would both face ridicule for such a choice, and it certainly gave me pause. I had to wonder if we could survive the scrutiny. The biggest question was: Would she want the title and all that came with it, including me? Not knowing the answer to that question was disconcerting—it was the most unsure I’d ever been in my life.
I brushed past several people to make my way to Monroe, who was losing still more articles of clothing as she rushed toward me.
When I finally reached her, she laughed her melodious laugh while announcing, “I have a story to tell you.”
“No doubt you do.” I took the remaining bonnets off her head.
“Grams helped me make those, and the dresses,” she said proudly as she began discarding the items and handing them to me.
I took the neoclassical empire-waist dresses with as much dignity as I could muster, knowing the spectacle we were making. “Perhaps we should exit,” I suggested, feeling every eye on us.
“I want to see how Harper fares. I gave her my carry-on before we exited the plane because the wheels on hers completely fell off, and the poor thing has a sprained ankle and has to wear one of those medical boots. And she’s nervous because she’s meeting her boyfriend’s parents for the first time and wants to make a good impression, so I told her she could have mine. I forgot I had no room in my checked bag for my costumes, so I had to carry them, naturally. The customs officials gave me such funny looks.” She finally took a breath, allowing me time to respond.
“Monroe, you don’t need to save every person you come across.”
“If only I could.” She gave me a meaningful look.
I knew exactly what she was trying to convey. She’d watched her mother choke when she was a small child and had been unable to save her. It had made her feel completely helpless. She never wanted to feel that way again, so she wonderfully (sometimes ridiculously) tried to help everyone she could.
There was no arguing with her or changing her mind about it, so I stood there holding the dresses and bonnets, knowing the risk we ran of some awful photog taking our picture. But I knew Monroe would not move from her place until she knew the outcome, which, given her track record, would most likely end in disaster.
As Monroe waited with bated breath for this Harper to appear, completely oblivious that many in the crowd were ridiculing her, she smiled over at me. “I forgot to hug you,” she realized, then immediately remedied the oversight by wrapping her arms around me, albeit awkwardly, since my arms were full of her costumes. But if there was a will, there was a way, and Monroe always found a way. She burrowed right into me, and I couldn’t help but wrap my arms around her, dresses and all.
“Hi there, friend. I missed you.”
I did my best to ignore the unflattering chatter around us, or even that she’d referred to me as her friend , and tried to focus solely on the way Monroe’s body contoured perfectly against mine as I breathed in her delicate floral scent, wishing to be alone with her and away from prying eyes. But I failed miserably to enjoy the moment with her. Throughout my life, my parents had trained me strictly in decorum—how to look and behave in public. And I was breaking every rule with Monroe at the moment. I wished I could say that I didn’t give a damn, but my title required me to care. But more importantly, I wanted to save Monroe from the cruelty of the public and the press. Didn’t she hear them whispering loudly about her?
The anxiety of the situation prevented me from responding to her the way I wanted to.
She looked up with those gorgeous dark eyes of hers, so full of goodness. “What’s wrong? You didn’t miss me?”
“Of course I did.” But like a fool, I let go of her. My father’s dying words reverberated in my head that I needed to put my title before my feelings. I wasn’t sure what he knew about feelings, as he had none, not even for me or my younger sister, Anna. As a result, I could barely acknowledge emotions myself, except for how I felt about Monroe and occasionally Anna. My sister, like me, had a hard time expressing emotion.
Monroe nudged me playfully. “Give me the dresses and I’ll meet you at the car. I know this is embarrassing you.”
The last thing I wanted was for Monroe to believe I didn’t wish to be by her side, even during her crazy antics. She didn’t embarrass me, per se. Not to say I wasn’t uncomfortable. But hadn’t I accused her moron ex of not valuing the things she treasured? Monroe, above all, treasured helping people, even if she was awful at it. Case in point: Harper finally appeared.
“There she is.” Monroe pointed at a scowling, bedraggled woman with a limp, trailing a pink carry-on behind her that matched Monroe’s large suitcase.
A man ran toward her, carrying wilting flowers.
I should have thought to bring Monroe flowers. Admittedly, romance wasn’t my strong suit. Women threw themselves at me all the time, so I’d never needed to woo anyone, much less my best mate.
“Oh, look,” Monroe squealed. “That’s so romantic!”
Just when I thought for once Monroe’s good deed hadn’t taken a bad turn, Harper and her boyfriend began arguing loudly.
“Thank you for the dead flowers,” Harper snipped.
“If you hadn’t taken so bloody long, they would still be fresh.”
“You have no idea what I’ve been through. Some crazy Jane Austen fan offered me her carry-on, and she left a small pair of embroidery scissors in them. I just spent the last several minutes being questioned, probed, and prodded by two customs officers.”
Monroe began to rush over to her. “Oh gosh. I totally forgot about those. I thought I packed them in my checked bag. How did those get through security the first time? I need to fix this.”
I grabbed Monroe’s hand, knowing it would only exacerbate the disaster. “Monroe, please, this once, let it drop. They are clearly not a good couple if they’re bickering about wilting flowers.”
She nibbled on her bottom lip pensively. “But what if—”
“Did you hear what she called you? She’s not worth your time. Please, we’re going to be late.” Truthfully, I wanted to march over to the woman and give her a piece of my mind. How dare she belittle Monroe after what she’d done for her? But decorum prevailed, as always.
“Well, I am a crazy Jane Austen fan.”
“Yes, you are.” I couldn’t help but smile. She somehow managed to bring out a softer side in me, even if it disconcerted me. “Shall we go live out your Austen fantasy?”
She nodded, although I could tell it disappointed her that her endeavor to save someone hadn’t had the outcome she was hoping for.
I breathed out a sigh of relief, ready to be done with prying eyes, and looking forward to the few hours of alone time I would get to spend with Monroe on the drive to Grantham. Perhaps then I could begin to convince her that I wished to do more than just pretend to be her Mr. Darcy.