A Dance in Moonlight (The Fitzhugh Trilogy) Read Online Free Page A

can’t tell the difference between a French red and an Italian one, let alone distinguish the parcel of land that produced a wine by the taste of it. All I know is that I like the conviviality a little wine brings.”
    He drank from his glass and waited for her to speak more. She stared a moment at his almost unbearably familiar face, mesmerized, before her mind seized on the length of his hair to remind her that no, he was but a stranger.
    “My—my late husband was a conscientious officer, always stern before his men. But every evening at dinner, after half a glass of wine, he’d begin to smile. After an entire glass of wine, he’d tell me the jokes he’d heard from the other officers. And on rare days when he allowed himself a second glass, he might even imitate his horse, a gorgeous bay stallion who ran like the wind, but had the habit of breaking wind loudly at the most inopportune moments.”
    She could not quite believe what she had said. But oh, how she’d loved those two-glasses-of-wine evenings. Lawrence had mastered a marvelous parody of himself, and when he would copy the noises that issued from his horse’s hindquarter, she almost invariably dropped her fork laughing.
    After a moment of surprise, Mr. Fitzwilliam smiled. She had the sensation that he relaxed somewhat. Of course he must have been on guard: This had to be the most outlandish situation in which he’d ever found himself.
    His increasing ease made her unclench a bit—she hadn’t quite grasped how tense she’d been, caught between her desire to make love to Fitz and her—thankfully—still quite sane awareness that no matter how much Mr. Fitzwilliam looked like Fitz, he remained another man entirely.
    Mr. Fitzwilliam indicated a chair by the fireplace.
    “Of course. How inconsiderate of me. Please have a seat.”
    He settled himself in the chair and raised his glass to her.
    She reciprocated the gesture. “How did you know I’d like some wine?”
    He lifted a brow. He had a livelier face than Fitz. The small gesture conveyed a wealth of meaning, not the least of which was an even-tempered awareness of the ludicrous demands that had been placed on his person.
    She reddened. “Please forgive me. Of course you may speak. I don’t know what came over me earlier.”
    “I’d like to say I have that effect on women,” he answered, smiling slightly. “But I don’t—not these particular effects, in any case.”
    There was no mockery in his voice, but something that was the audible equivalent of a friendly nod. It put her further at ease—he hadn’t taken her mad request too seriously. Or at least, he’d treated her moment of insanity for what it was and did not consider her permanently batty.
    “And to answer your question, I had no idea whether you would like wine, but I was fairly certain I would like some.”
    “To gird yourself?”
    He hesitated a moment. “In a way.”
    It was unnerving to keep looking at his face, so she lowered her gaze a few inches. But it was almost as disconcerting to contemplate the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms, and the casual way he held his wineglass, the stem dangling between his fingers.
    She noticed for the first time that his waistcoat was scarlet—Fitz never wore such flamboyant colors. And he slouched to a degree, whereas Fitz’s back would have been straighter than a yardstick.
    The man who looked exactly like Fitz might not remotely resemble him in temperament or inclinations.
    “I am curious, Mrs. Englewood,” he said, “how would your life have been different had Lord Fitzhugh not inherited his title?”
    “Other than the fact that today I might still believe myself fortune’s darling? Probably not very much. Fitz had wanted to be a cavalry officer. The man I married was also a cavalry officer.”
    “Does this mean I am not your first replacement for Lord Fitzhugh?”
    Her nerves pulled taut. But he did not sound peevish, only genuinely curious.
    “It might look that