Summer 1924
'It will be better in the long run.' That's what he had said to her—ironically ten years ago to the day—the day before he had left to join the Army in London after he met her at her aunt's house. He had thought their chances were gone, that his happiness would never be realized. He had yearned for her for years, but never truly hoped…and now look at them—in a hotel in Venice, with her asleep half on top of him and him half-asleep but too fascinated to give into his fatigue. Mary Napier née Crawley, his wife.
He had thought of Mrs. Napier, of Lady Branksome, as a faceless dream. Evelyn Napier, heir to the Viscount Branksome, would have to marry and produce an heir—it was what was expected. But Evelyn wanted more—he wanted a marriage not simply of convenience but one of love. One where he could proudly tell his children—their children—of how he met their mother and how taken he had been from the first moment, of how he didn't know it then, but he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. They had lost track of each other for years, had gone their separate ways. She had married, and had loved and been loved— she had been happy. He had not. He had thrown himself into his work until his mind dreamed of census numbers and not the dates on which they had seen each other, or when he had received her letters. At first he had tried to erase Mary Crawley from his mind, but had failed and instead accepted that their lives might brush against one another every now and then, but could never be one.
He had stopped looking. In the face of every woman he had danced with, there she was. It had begun with Sarah—his fiancée. He could never kiss her without wondering what her lips tasted like. He could never gaze into her eyes without wishing they were darker, like hers…
So he had ended it. He had not been ready , he had said. Sarah, however, had known, and had wished him luck and happiness. She had married a Duke, but not without leaving her former fiancé with a piece of advice. 'Tell her the truth. And even if nothing happens, it will be better in the long run .' Her observational
powers were probably what he had liked most about her aside from the attention—they had been kindred spirits, but she was not her. Never her…
He felt her shift in her sleep with an unladylike grumble and he chuckled softly, tentatively reaching out to stroke her raven, unbound tresses. She had been a painting in his mind during the war, and was every bit as lovely as she had been then as now—as in 1910 when the bashful boy from
Oxford asked the charming deb to dance.
"What are you doing still awake?" she asked him, eyes still closed. He smiled and his hand drifted to her cheek.
"Just thinking…"
"What about?" She turned in his arms ( his arms! the idea still made him feverish with delight ) so that they were now face to face.
"The past fourteen years really. Do you recall what I said to you in London? About when I called the wedding off? I thought it would be 'better in the long run'." It had been his natural sense of optimism speaking, but had had little to do with marrying the girl of his dreams. Little did he know…
"And what is the verdict, Mr. Napier?" she queried in her low and lilting tone of which he had only recently begun to realize the full effect.
"Much, much better…" he admitted with an enamored grin just before her lips covered his own, and he was again gratified that he had received his marriage based on love.