The Promise of Change (20 page)

The location chosen for Wilcox Manor was a former abbey built in the mid-seventeen hundreds. The central block with its temple-like portico flanked by two sprawling wings was constructed of weathered creamy Headington Stone, a type of limestone common to Oxfordshire. The façade was lined with Palladian windows, which provided spectacular views of the grounds.

The thousand acre parkland, all that remained of the original three thousand acres, featured the rolling lawns and extensive views out to isolated groups of trees, typical of the famed landscaper Capability Brown. The effect made the landscape seem even larger. The grounds also boasted beautiful formal gardens complete with Greek temples of the same soft limestone as the house.

“May I join you?”

Sarah looked up with a start to see Alex standing there. She sat on a bench beneath a large maple in the garden behind the house, legs curled under her, reading the script for the next day’s shoot. The first unit filming was cut short today, because Brooke claimed a migraine. Second unit was somewhere on the grounds shooting inserts and cutaways.

“Of course.”

He took a seat at the other end of the bench, toying with a leafy twig in his hand, silent for a few moments. The détente that began in London had become a full-fledged normalization of relations in Oxfordshire. “I haven’t asked you yet, how does it feel?”

She tensed at his question. There were so many ways to interpret it. How does it feel to have run out on him? How does it feel to have to face him again? She looked up in confusion.

“To option your first book–to watch it come to life in film?”

“Oh.” She smiled in relief. “It feels amazing!” She could feel the blood rise to her face after her effusive outburst.

He turned to face her and his expression opened up. The Alex she knew suddenly returned. “I’m so proud of you, Sarah.”

She looked into his eyes and instead of cool distance, she saw genuine warmth. “I have you to thank for it. No”—she held up her hand when he would have interrupted—“listen. I need to say something and it may not come out as eloquently as I would like, but it is the truth and it is from my heart.” He waited patiently while she tried to find the words.

“Notwithstanding my cowardly retreat last year, I owe you a great deal. I’ve lived most of my life with caution and timidity. It served me well most of the time. I made it through my teenage and young adult years with my heart intact, but that’s easy to do when you don’t let anyone in. The first and only time, until last year, that I threw caution to the wind . . . well . . . as you know, it didn’t end well.” She smiled ruefully.

“I’m ashamed of my behavior. I was so afraid of opening my heart again, and then having it all become . . . so public. It was just easier to leave. It was easier to stay broken.”

She took a deep breath. “But I’ve learned that I can’t plan everything . . . that I have to take chances, even if I get hurt in the process. That’s just part of life. I’m just sorry if I hurt you in the process.”

He was quiet. She couldn’t tell if he was considering her long confession, or whether he was contemplating a response.

“I was hurt and angry, I admit, but I suppose on some level I understood. We’d only spent a week together, you were recovering from a dreadful divorce, and there I was putting pressure on you–moving too fast, and dragging you into my very public life.”

“I should never have allowed it to happen,” he continued, frowning. “I couldn’t slow down where you were concerned . . . there just wasn’t enough time. Not that I regret our night together, but I should have taken a page from your playbook and moved more cautiously.”

“You’re very forbearing.” She hesitated, confused by his kindness and understanding. After a few moments of silence, she asked, “Not that you weren’t justified, but why did you react so angrily that first night in London?”

“To be honest, I was surprised by my own reaction. I was prepared to remain distant, wait for some sign from you as to where things stood, but when I saw Michael’s arm around your waist as if marking his territory, I assumed that’s where things stood. Watching his continued fawning only fueled my anger.

“When you came to apologize, I’d almost made up my mind to pull out of the project. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to watch him with you every day. But I always finish what I start.” He paused before continuing.

“Over the weeks that followed, it was very difficult. He appeared to look for every opportunity to lean in close and speak to you. But your reaction the day he attempted to kiss you gave me cause to hope . . . to hope that I could try again, but take it a little slower this time . . . allow you to set the pace.”

He took her hand in his and turned the full weight of his tender gaze on her. “Sarah, tell me . . . if you want me to leave things be, I will, but if you’ll allow me, I would like to try again.”

“I’d like that very much.” She had to look away before her eyes filled with tears. I don’t deserve him, she thought.

She returned to her room that night to find a box on her bed. Once she saw the return address, she quickly tore open the box. It was the first run of her book. She couldn’t begin to express what it was like to pull out a beautifully bound copy of her own book. If she wrote a hundred books, she didn’t think that experience would ever grow stale.

The book jacket included some of the better reviews. Not surprising, the first was her favorite:

Not since the days of Jane Austen has a novel introduced such brilliant characters, sparkling dialogue, and unforgettable romance. A must read for Austenites everywhere.

Of course, not everyone loved the book. After all, even Jane Austen had her detractors. There was one particularly scathing review she recalled, which of course was not on the back cover. She did take some level of satisfaction that the reviewer lacked originality, relying on a Mark Twain quip on Austen to sum up his critique of her book:

I go so far as to say that any library is a good library that does not contain this volume by Sarah Edwards. Even if it contains no other book.

That was okay. At least he kept her in good company with Jane Austen.

She couldn’t wait to show Alex.

Over the following two weeks, Sarah began to see a number of interesting parallels between the development of Christen’s and Amelia’s relationship and the rekindling of hers and Alex’s relationship.

Just as with Christen and Amelia, hers and Alex’s first meeting in London was awkward and fraught with tension, but before departing for the Oxfordshire countryside, there was a thawing in relations, a crack in the icy reserve of both Christen and Alex.

Likewise, as a mutual understanding developed and grew between Amelia and Christen during their time in the country, so, too, has a mutual understanding developed and grown for her and Alex.

He had limited free time, with most of his attention consumed by the movie production, but the free time he did have, he spent with Sarah. Some of that time was spent in the former manor’s well-stocked library, where they read to one another from books recently discovered or re-discovered.

It was purely selfish on Sarah’s part because not only did she get to be with him, she got to listen to him read to her. His warm satin voice, lilting accent, and pleasing intonation brought life to the beautiful words and captivating characters.

Walking the inviting grounds of the estate was another favorite activity. With nothing to distract them, they caught up on the year they were apart. He explained how many times he’d thought of calling her, writing to her, or even e-mailing her, only to change his mind, thinking she would find the communication unwelcome.

She explained how her decision to write was made and the influence he had had on that decision. He was surprised, but pleased, to learn that their previous conversations had inspired her to take a chance on her dreams.

Although they had not resumed physical intimacy, their emotional intimacy was deepening, and all of their encounters were accompanied by subtle gestures of tenderness: a guiding hand on her elbow when they traversed the wilder parts of the park; a hand holding hers as she stepped over a fallen log; a solicitous question about her comfort in the evening air.

This attentiveness was a welcome change to the cool distance of a few weeks earlier.

Yes, she could see many pleasing parallels. She only hoped there would be no comparable displeasing parallels.

Living within the confines of the estate, spending nearly every waking hour together, the cast and crew became a family. Evening meals were often raucous, convivial affairs. Seated at the enormous formal dining table, everyone joked and laughed over the day’s trip-ups, flubs, and bloopers. Sarah found herself enjoying everyone’s company, even Brooke’s on occasion. Tonight, however, she enjoyed herself at Brooke’s expense.

During the brief shoot for the scene with Amelia and Cat on horseback, Brooke’s horse became uncooperative. The videographer needed only a quick shot of Brooke mounting the horse, the rest of the scene being shot with a stunt woman, but every time Brooke tried to put her foot in the stirrup to mount, the mare took a step or two forward, causing her to hop after her on one foot.

This happened a few more times, until finally, in a fit, Brooke demanded a more submissive animal. Laughter rang out around the table with the account of the story, and despite her participation, Sarah detected Brooke’s annoyance at being the butt of the joke.

“And did you see Alex slip during the fencing scene? It looked like he’d stepped on a banana peel, arms flailing, foil wobbling in the air.” Mel, one of the more outgoing members of the crew, recounted the story, arms gesticulating wildly. “I was afraid he would lose his grip on the thing and skewer us all like a shish-kabob.”

Alex joined in, his eyes alight with mirth. “Yes, well, I was attempting to execute a picture perfect flèche, which failed on a monumental scale. Though you can’t say I didn’t warn you to give me a wide berth. Swordplay is not my forté. I’m a lover, not a fighter,” he said with a devastating grin, as his eyes caught Sarah’s across the table.

She sucked in her breath while her heart did a little quick-step. How did he do that, she wondered, how did he make her heart race with just a look?

The remainder of the meal carried on in the same vein, getting more boisterous as the wine flowed, and they were a thirsty bunch. Although it had been a long day, Sarah was inexplicably keyed up. She excused herself from the table, intending to find some quiet in the library.

She was scanning the titles on the shelves when the muffled sounds from the dining room suddenly grew louder. She looked up to see Alex closing the door behind him.

“I thought I might find you here.” He wanted to talk to her. To finally own up to the conspiracy that resulted in their reunion. “Am I disturbing you?”

“No. I was just looking for a book to take up to my room.”

“Looking for anything in particular?” he asked as he crossed the room to stand next to her. “I’ve become quite familiar with the library,” he replied to her unspoken question.

“Oh, I don’t know . . . something light.” Her pulse fluttered in response to his proximity.

“Well, let’s have a look. There’s the Brontë sisters—”

“That’s light?” she asked with a laugh.

“I guess you’re right. How about James Joyce?”

“Lighter.”

“Scott?”

“F. Scott or Sir Walter?”

“Sir Walter.”

“Lighter.”

“All right, Dr. Seuss?”

“They don’t have Dr. Seuss—” She rolled her eyes.

“It’s right here,” he said, reaching down to the bottom shelf.

“Okay,” she said with a laugh, “maybe not quite that light. How about Alcott?”

“
Little Women
? That’s light?”

“Light enough.”

“If that’s what you want . . . it’s here right above you.” He stepped onto the library ladder reaching for a volume one shelf up.

His cologne wafted past Sarah, bringing memories flooding back. She recalled his smoldering look across the table earlier and her heart skipped a beat.

He stepped off the ladder, holding the book out to her. “Frankly, I don’t know what’s wrong with a little Sir Walter Sco—”

She cut off his words with a kiss. She didn’t know what happened. One minute they were talking the classics, and the next she was grabbing his face and kissing him. She’d acted completely on impulse. And instinct.

At first, his arms remained unresponsive, but he quickly recovered from his shock at her inexplicable behavior, dropping the book to the floor with a
thwack
, and wrapping his arms around her waist.

He pulled her into the alcove behind the ladder, his fingers fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, and running his lips down the column of her throat. “God, Sarah. How I’ve missed you. Your smell, your taste.” He moaned, claiming her mouth again, his lips branding her.

Her hands knotted in his hair, drinking in the taste of him, nibbling his lower lip, until she finally retreated, gasping for breath. “Come to my room. Now.”

“So much for taking it slow,” he said with a wicked grin.

“You said I could determine the pace, right?” She ran her hands down his neck, inside the collar of his shirt.

“Yes.” He shivered when her fingers touched his bare skin.

“Well, I’ve decided to pick up the pace a bit.” She unbuttoned one button then another, pressing kisses onto his exposed skin with each button she popped open.

“A bit?” he asked skeptically. “The velocity at which you’re moving now is making me dizzy.”

“I hope that’s not the only thing making you dizzy.”

“Sarah.” He drew in a ragged breath. “What about the others . . ?”

“It’s early. They’ll be at the table for several more hours,” she murmured between kisses. “Send in a few more bottles of wine. That should take care of it.” She had reached his navel.

“Dear God, Sarah. If you don’t cease this instant, there won’t be time to get to your room.” His hands were on her shoulders as he gently pushed her away. “I’ll be up in about fifteen minutes.” He re-buttoned his shirt as he spoke. “I’ll need that time to compose myself. I certainly can’t be seen in this condition,” his added, his meaning obvious.

“My room is on the left, at the end of the hall.” Breathless, she kissed his chest once more before he could finish buttoning his shirt.

Sarah hadn’t planned on seducing anyone during her stay in England, so she didn’t have any lacy lingerie to slip into. Remembering Oxford, she put on the same robe she wore that night . . . and nothing else. Hopefully he would remember, too, since the robe itself was about as enticing as a flannel nightgown.

She was anxious. Why did it seem longer than the promised fifteen minutes? Had he changed his mind? Decided that her sudden unpredictability was more than he’d bargained for?

There was a knock on her door so soft she thought she’d imagined it. She hurried over and opened it. He stood there looking so . . . delectable. She grabbed the front of his shirt, and tugged him through the door.

His eyes opened wide in surprise. Then his hands found her face, pulling her lips up to meet his, molding her body to the length of his, as he leaned against the now-closed door.

His slid his hands down to her waist, untying the sash, slipping his hands inside her robe. His breath left him in a soft hiss when he encountered the bare skin underneath.

He smiled against her lips. “I have rather fond memories of this robe.” So alluring in a simple white cotton robe. He swallowed hard when he imagined her in a lacy bit of nothing. He’d have to see what he could do to fulfill that little fantasy later.

She sighed when his hands found the bare skin at her waist. He pressed her hips to his, kissing her along her collarbone to her shoulder. She wanted to remove his shirt, but her arms were useless, like they’d melted into nothingness. She reveled in his touch, his kisses, his warmth, his desire. The robe glided to the floor, pooling at her feet.

“Oh God,” he breathed as his scorching eyes blazed a trail along her skin. “You are so beautiful. Sweet Sarah, my love.” He picked her up, carrying her to bed, her legs wrapped around his waist.

“You know, I see a lot of myself in Christen . . . well, apart from the fencing skills.” He chuckled.

Lying in bed, bodies intertwined, they listened to the great house settle as the occupants drifted to their rooms. Alex reclined on one elbow, playing with a lock of her hair, brushing it along her collarbone.

“That’s not surprising.”

“The part about the fencing?”

“No, the part about seeing a lot of yourself in Christen . . . at least physically.” She hesitated before making her confession. “After all,” she said, smiling sheepishly, “you were my muse. Although mere words failed to adequately capture your devastating good looks and irresistible sex appeal.”

He pulled back, surprised. “Really? Huh.” He ignored her effusive compliments.

“You’re not upset?”

“Why should I be? I’m flattered, actually.”

She shrugged. Before she could articulate a response, he pulled her face around to look at him, his hand cradling her neck. His eyes were troubled. She tensed in reaction to his knitted brow.

“Sarah, at the risk of scaring you off . . .”

Her tension increased ten-fold. He drew in a deep breath, as if preparing to take a plunge into deep water.

He’d waited too long to tell her, and could wait no longer. It didn’t matter whether she could return the sentiment or not. “I love you. I think I’ve loved you from the instant we met, your hand covered in beer, your eyes snapping with indignation.” He chuckled softly.

“And from the moment we kissed goodbye that night at Rutherford to this moment, a day has not gone by that I didn’t think about you, miss you, hope that you were happy . . . even if it meant you weren’t mine.”
Sarah stared at him, her eyes wide with wonder and shimmering with tears. She’d never expected to hear those three words.

She let them sink in. She’d fallen in love with him during that short week a year ago. Had loved him all along; and loved him still more now; knew it with the certainty with which she knew she needed to breathe.

She grazed her fingers across his lips. He shivered. “Alex. I love you.” She wrapped her hand around his neck, drawing his mouth down to hers.

“Sarah . . . aside from the tabloid article, what precipitated your . . . um . . .”

“Cowardly retreat?”

“Yes, well, retreat. There had to be more to it than that, although I confess, seeing your photo like that for the first time can be somewhat disconcerting.”

“Alex . . .”

“I want to know . . . so in the future, I can avoid doing whatever it was that I did.” He wore that boyish grin she loved so much.

As they walked along the moonlit gravel path of their favorite garden, she thought about how to respond to his question. “What if I told you it was nothing you did?”

“I’d still want to know what it was that made you throw a wobbly that resulted in a miserable twelve-month separation.” He stopped and turned her to face him, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

She swallowed hard. Then took a deep breath. “When Adrian and I were married, we traveled in loftier social circles. Later, when we separated then, divorced, the dirty laundry associated with it became quite public, subjecting me, not him,” she said, laughing contemptuously, “to ridicule and catty remarks.”

She dropped to a garden bench to finish. “I swore I would never allow myself that kind of public scrutiny again. When I saw our picture, my picture, in the tabloid along with the article calling me the other woman, I panicked.” Tell him everything, she admonished herself. “But that’s not the only reason.”

“What’s the other reason?” His voice was flat, his brow knitted.

“There was an article in the
International Herald
that morning.” She pulled her knees under her chin, wrapping her arms around them.

“I don’t understand. About us?” His face was wary.

“No. It was just a story about how Adrian had saved a Saudi Prince’s sight and about his upcoming wedding.”

“And, what, you were regretting your divorce, you were jealous?”

“No.”

“Then you need to explain, because I’m feeling a little uneasy.” He frowned, deep in thought. “Sarah, I need to know . . . if there is still something there, because I don’t do anything by halves, and apparently that includes love. If you don’t feel the same way I do, please tell me now so I know what to expect.”

“First, I love you in a way I never thought possible. In a way I never loved, nor ever could love Adrian. Second, there is nothing there. I haven’t seen or heard from Adrian since our divorce was final a year-and-a-half ago.”

She paused, afraid that what she was going to say wasn’t going to make him feel much better. “Something you don’t know about my marriage to Adrian . . . we’d only dated a few short weeks before he asked me to marry him. This impetuous behavior was completely out of character for me, and look where it ended . . .” she trailed off.