If the Shoe Fits (26 page)

He pulled back and smiled, still keeping his fingers on her neck and near her mouth. “I know exactly how you feel. I kind of lose my breath when I think of you discovering that I am totally unworthy. A sham. But apparently, we’re seeing things in each other that we can’t possibly see in ourselves.” He raised an eyebrow and she blushed. His hands began to roam down to her chest and along her hips. His voice sounded thicker. “I see a blindingly beautiful woman.” He cupped her breasts in his hands and her breath caught. “I see a body that makes me weak with longing.” Sarah’s eyes closed and she pressed her hips into him.

“I see a man who cares so deeply about everyone around him, but he pretends to be careless instead.” She opened her eyes and looked into his dreamy gray eyes. “I see a brilliant mind that is afraid of being found out.” Sarah’s hands were running through his hair, massaging his scalp. He melted into her touch, his eyes softening.

He whispered, “I see a confident woman who underestimates her own power.”

Sarah’s body responded to his voice like it always did: melting. She was ravenous for him and swept her lips down onto his and squeezed his head in her hands. She pulled away after a few minutes, overcome. “I love you, Devon. I just do. I’m sorry if it’s too soon to say it or—”

“Oh, Sarah, you must know I love you. I can barely say the words without sounding like the biggest ass—the lover who wants to rip you to shreds—but there it is. You make me wildly happy.”

“I feel the same. Just shockingly happy.”

They leaned deeper into the couch, then Sarah urged his body so he was flat on his back and she began to work on his belt buckle with shaking hands. “I’ve been wanting to try this…”

***

By seven o’clock, it was almost time to start getting ready for dinner. Devon resisted waking Sarah because he was having too much fun entertaining a string of fantasies that involved Sarah napping in just the same way in palatial hotel rooms across Europe. He wanted to check into the Danieli in Venice for a few nights (and see the curve of her hip against the Grand Canal), then Villa d’Este (her hair sparkling in the reflection of Lake Como), then maybe go to Florence for a few days at the Villa La Vedetta (all that Botticellian hair framed by the domes and River Arno), and then hunker down at the Hotel du Cap, maybe forever.

He had a momentary worry that she might be booked with work engagements, then tried to push that aside:
her
shoes
are
all
made
in
Italy—she must have to go there occasionally
, he argued weakly. The real worry was that he did not want to be apart from her at all, a situation that was patently untenable. He figured an ongoing itinerary of glamorous travel would postpone the need to decide whether they would live at his place or hers or get a new place altogether, in London or New York or Chicago, and how soon. Even he knew he was pressing the accelerator with far too much pressure, but he was beyond reason.

The purported reason for the entire weekend finally came to pass at eleven o’clock sharp on Sunday morning. The bright spring sun streamed through the beveled, lead windows of the family chapel at Dunlear Castle, shining in piercing beams that were worthy of a Renaissance annunciation picture. The trickle of water that served to welcome little Charles Heyworth into the flock glistened and sparkled as the drops caught the light. Max and Bronte both held him as the vicar said the benediction, and Sarah thought again how much they looked like some sort of holy trinity.

She was not a religious person by nature, but the entire ritual brought on a powerful surge of bittersweet emotions: the loss of her mother, the joy of Devon’s hand squeezing hers as he watched the beautiful moment with her, the unspoken implication that he wanted that for them—from her—and her answering grip. After the initial baptism, the vicar continued the ceremony and the babe was passed to his godfather, for Devon to accept the responsibility he was asked to undertake.

Sarah was hard-pressed to keep her tears at bay, seeing this incredible man (tall, formal, wicked) holding this innocent creature in his arms. He smiled into the little face, then looked up and caught Sarah staring at him. His eyes twinkled with mischief as he handed her the baby, the linen of the antique christening gown wrinkling against her fingers as Devon’s strong hand touched hers under the fall of the fabric.

“Ow!” Devon grumbled under his breath.

“Enough swooning. Give her the baby,” Max muttered, having just kicked his younger brother in the shin, the little act of adolescent violence hidden behind the column of the baptismal font.

How
is
it
, Devon wondered,
that
everyone
thinks
Max
is
the
pillar
of
the
family?

Devon winked at Sarah and finally released Wolf into her caring embrace. He had to keep his gaze away from hers for fear he would further embarrass himself in front of the small gathering of family and friends, by weeping or falling to his knees or something equally ludicrous.

The reception after the ceremony was a beautiful, intimate spread in the bright, sunny morning room that led out to the terrace at the southern side of the castle. Devon’s mother was there, and his aunt and uncle, several cousins, and a few other close friends of Bronte and Max’s, as well as Bronte’s mother, who had flown in for the ceremony.

Abigail, Narinda, and Eliot had formed a little trio of rebellion, as if to announce that all this fornication and procreation and adulation was just about enough. The three of them laughed at bawdy jokes and stayed out on the terrace, taking in the midday sun for most of the party.

Devon’s older sister Claire had also arrived from her home in the farthest reaches of northern Scotland.
Alone
again
, Devon thought when he saw Claire’s drawn expression while she hugged Bronte across the room. Her relations with her husband now appeared to be so permanently strained that no one in the family even pretended to ask after The Missing Marquess nor cared to hear the latest embarrassing scandal involving Claire’s hard-partying daughter, Lydia.

Devon introduced Sarah to his mother with little ceremony. The two women had met at the rehearsal dinner and wedding in October, and Bronte had spent hours regaling Sarah with anecdotes about the formidable doyenne (did she dare say
bitch
?). Oddly enough, the rigid woman seemed to take a shine to Sarah.

“Devon, dear, wherever did you find the lovely Miss James?”

“She came prevetted”—he smiled at Sarah then back at his mother—“from Bronte.”

That rankled. Of course, the Dowager Duchess of Northrop had forced herself to accept the crass American as her daughter-in-law—what choice did she have, after all?—but she was reluctant to give her anything but the most rudimentary courtesy. This lovely, feminine, blond angel, on the other hand, was quite the thing.

“I suppose certain associations must be overlooked.”

Sarah nearly spewed her champagne onto the dowager duchess’s stunning Chanel suit.

Devon elaborated, “My mother and Bronte are way too much alike to ever get along.”

“Devon, you are cruel. How dare you compare me to that overbearing young woman?”

“Careful, Mother, she is Sarah’s best friend, and I suspect Sarah does have the occasional flare of loyal indignation. If you persist in bashing her best mate, Sarah may not send you a complimentary pair of her latest stilettos. Let’s move on.”

Sarah watched the two as they continued a wicked game of verbal banter that often veered toward malice, but never quite got there. Devon seemed to be the only one who could manage his mother. The perfectly manicured older woman hung on his every word, if only to toss the perfect quip in reply.

“Very well. What happens in the tawdry world of commerce these days?” his mother asked Devon with impatience.

Aaaah
, Sarah mused,
Devon
in
his
role
as
the
layabout
was
about
to
enter
stage
left.

“Necessarily tedious. I show up. They pay me. It helps to fill the day. But I was thinking of going to Italy this week. With Sarah.”

That champagne was destined to fly out of her mouth one way or the other.

“Excuse me,” Sarah sputtered in surprise.

“I don’t know,” he said, looking out to the terrace as if the idea had just occurred to him, then returning his full attention to his mother. “I was thinking of Venice, maybe the Danieli? What do you think, Mother? The Danieli or the Gritti?”

“The Gritti, darling.”

“Then Como for a few days. Then maybe Florence, La Vedetta?”

“Of course.”

Sarah continued to watch the verbal volley that proceeded as if she were nothing more than a passing observer, then she dove in: “I hate to bring up the rather unpleasant topic of corporate responsibility, but there is no way I could do any of that this week.”

The duchess rolled her eyes. “You girls today—
women
, I suppose you will correct me—are so unromantic. Look at this handsome, strapping man inviting you on a petit grand tour for heaven’s sake, and you waver? It’s laughable. Your priorities are completely upside down.”

Sarah smiled at the woman who reminded her almost too much of her grandmother. “You must meet my grandmother. You two are cut from the same cloth. She tolerates what she calls my ‘youthful foray into cobblery,’ but only as long as it does not interfere with trips to Fiesole or Bequia.”

“She sounds divine! I would love to meet her. Where does she live? It
cannot
be America.”

Sarah ignored the nationalistic slur. “She was born in Boston and lived there and in New York for many years, but after my grandfather died, she married a fair-to-middling French artist named Jacques Fournier—”

It was now Sylvia’s turn to ensure her champagne remained in her mouth. “Your grandmother is Letitia Fournier! Oh, Devon, you have landed in the honey pot, my dear. How delicious! I used to actually clip images of her from magazines in my youth. Devon’s father recoiled at the idea of paying those prices for haute couture, so I used to take the images to a local seamstress in Norfolk and she made copies for me. I still have them in storage somewhere, you must come see them some time.”

“Oh, how wonderful!” Sarah said. “I’d love that.”

“You know I adored your father, Devon”—the dowager duchess put her hand on her son’s upper arm—“but he had no patience for fashion. Early on in our marriage, he didn’t see the point, but I wore him down.”

Sarah stared at the quick intimacy of the mother’s touch: nothing saccharine or cloying (ever), but just enough.

“Letitia has that effect on people,” Sarah said. “I’d love for the two of you to meet. She’s in Paris at the moment but probably heading to Florence within a week or two.” Sarah turned her pointed look to Devon. “Perhaps you could visit her when you are gallivanting around Florence on your upcoming trip.”

“
Our
upcoming trip, darling.” He squeezed her around the waist with the arm that had been loosely draped there for most of the past hour. “You must have factories or minions or someone who needs to be prodded in northern Italy. Maybe
your
Eliot
has something that requires your expertise in Milan. We can research those new stilettos you talked about. Come on, don’t be such a stick in the mud.”

If she hadn’t known he was speaking with such careless dismissal almost entirely for his mother’s benefit, she would have been furious.

“You two are devils,” Sarah said. “I’m going to talk to Max and Bronte and remind myself that there are still people around here who live in the real world.”

Devon smiled and let her go reluctantly after a brief kiss on the cheek.

“Marry her quickly, Devon.”

His mother’s voice cut through his thoughts. Her tone was not light or mocking, but probably the most deadly serious he had ever heard.

“So you like her?”

“She’s the woman for you, regardless of what I think, but yes, I like her very much. And who is that handsome man fawning all over Abigail?” She gestured with her champagne glass in a tiny motion toward the terrace.

“Oh, that’s Eliot Cranbrook. He’s an old family friend of Sarah’s and she invited him when she thought—well, it doesn’t matter why she invited him.”

His mother’s eyebrow arched in response. “And where is Tully?” she asked.

“If you are going to wait until Sunday morning to arrive, you are going to miss the intermittent drama. They broke up.”

“Well. That
is
news. Do you think it was just a phase?”

“Mother. They were together for ten years… I hardly think that can qualify as a
phase
.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean, Devon. Do you think there’s hope for her yet?”

“You are so antiquated, Mother. She is not a cancer survivor; she’s a lesbian.”

She cringed slightly. “Must you say it just like that? That word sounds so… clinical.”

“What would you prefer?” Devon chortled briefly. “Perhaps ‘the company of women’ or her ‘special friend.’ Please. You are many things, Mother, but you have never been one for mincing words. As the Americans like to say,
get
real
.”

“Very well. You are right, I suppose. It is one of the few topics that still confounds me. I find it utterly incomprehensible. All that sameness. Where’s the variety?”

“I think she and Tully were perfectly suited and complemented one another admirably. Abby is all fiery and unreliable, and Tully is all consistent and driven. They hardly lacked for variety.”

“I guess it’s just something I could never get my mind around. It would just be so much
easier
if she would simply fall in love with a
man
.”

“Easier for whom?”

“Well, for me, of course!” She smiled the smile that she only bestowed on Devon, the warm, conspiratorial, generous smile. Then she looked up and saw Bronte approaching and resumed her brittle, shrewish affect.

Devon looked over his shoulder to see what had brought on the cooling, and asked in a low voice, “Must you be so difficult with Bronte?”

“I am never difficult, Devon. I am merely being honest. I find her gauche and ambitious.”

About halfway across the room, Bronte had stopped for a moment, holding Wolf and swinging him slightly from right to left, to speak to Willa and David Osborne, another couple of close family friends invited out for the weekend to celebrate.

Devon continued quietly, “You can hardly accuse her of being ambitious when she did everything in her power to dissuade Max from pursuing her. He’s madly in love with her—you might try to soften a bit.”

“I am not particularly soft, Devon. With you, I seem to have made an exception, but it is only because you dote on me unreservedly. The young duchess and I shall never be friends. She refuses to
dote
, after all.”

Devon had to give his mother credit for honesty, even if she was only being honest about her profound narcissism.

“Wait until you spend more time with her and the cub. You might change your opinion.”

“And that nickname is outlandish,” she cut back.

By then, Bronte was nearly upon them and Devon stepped to one side to include her in the conversation with his mother.

“Good morning, Duchess. Thank you so much for coming today.”

“Well—” She looked as if she was about to let loose a razor-sharp quip along the lines of
what
choice
did
I
have
, but pulled up short at Devon’s censorious glare. “It was my pleasure. The ceremony was lovely.”

“I thought you would want to hold the baby.”

At that moment, Devon felt something about Bronte that was so tender, so vulnerable, there was no way he was going to let his willful mother destroy it.

The dowager duchess started to lift her arms—champagne glass in one hand, Hermès purse hanging on the wrist of the other—to indicate that her hands were full when Devon reached across the small distance and took both glass and bag. “I’m happy to hold those, Mother.”

He had already deftly slid off the bag and taken possession of the delicate crystal champagne flute before she could protest. If she demurred now, she would look blatantly cruel. Her cruelty was never blatant.

“Very well.” She smiled in a small, conciliatory way.

Bronte handed the drowsy, angelic baby over with care. His antique ivory linen christening gown trailed nearly to the floor.

Sylvia Heyworth had held all of her babies in a state of surrender in those moments after delivery: exhausted, desperate, relieved. Perhaps, if she were honest, with a twinge of resentment as well, for all the pain and worry that had gone into having them. Holding a grandchild was an entirely different proposition. Here was a creature that required no particular attention, had caused her no pain upon his arrival, did not rely frantically on her for his very existence, would not extort.