Awards for Tempesta di Amore

[Prologue] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] [20] [21] [22] [23] [24] [25] [26] [27]

Author: Holly (holly.hangingavarice@gmail.com)
Rating: NC-17 (Eventually—for sexual situations) Mostly Strong R.
Timeline: Britain, early-mid 20th century
Summary: AU. While vacationing in Monte Carlo, a young Buffy Summers meets the notorious William de Winter, withdrawn and desolate still from the loss of his wife. When her employer threatens to leave Europe and head back for America, William offers Buffy the choice of leaving or marrying him—a proposal she cannot refuse. With a husband she barely knows, the young bride arrives at an immense estate, only to be drawn into the life of the first Mrs. de Winter, the beautiful Drusilla, dead but never forgotten...the suite of her rooms never touched, her clothes ready to be worn, her servant—the sinister Mrs. Hart—still loyal. And as an eerie presentiment of evil tightens around her heart, Buffy begins her search through internal destabilization and a knowledge that haunts her with every wake: she can never be Drusilla.

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. They are being used for entertainment purposes out of love and admiration, and not for the sake of profit. No copyright infringement is intended. Furthermore, the skeleton of this story is accredited to the fantastic Daphne du Maurier.

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Author’s Note: Okay, yeah, so I started this fic nearly two years ago. I’ve put off actively working on it for so long because it intimidates me, and its survived solely by ghostgirl13's prompting. Therefore, I lovingly dedicate this story to her. She kept me on my toes, even when I didn’t want to be kept.

My semester is going to be hellacious, and now I’m officially writing four different stories – this and GoCR, plus two Ameeya WIPs that I haven’t posted anywhere yet. I hope to get a chapter of some fic done a week, and hopefully I’ll space myself out enough that it’ll mean just a week between updates for each fic. I rather doubt I’ll be able to stick to this, but that’s the plan for now. A chapter a week of whatever fics I’m actually posting at the time. One of Ameeya’s fics likely won’t be posted until it’s either well underway, or nearly complete…just because it’s long, dark, angsty, and involved. And I’m so psyched about it I can hardly contain myself.

For this fic, thanks to megan_peta, therealmccoy1, dusty273, ghostgirl13 and everyone else who’s helped me with this fic over the past couple years. I’m so sorry I can’t remember everyone. *facepalm* And I’ve since changed comps, so I don’t have your original revisions. Feel free to resend them to me.

Finally, thank you to vampkiss for making me this banner so long ago.

Here’s the prologue to Tempesta di Amore, my Spuffy-tribute to my favorite book of all time, Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. I only hope I can do it justice.

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again…”

Prologue

The man was going to jump.

She knew it; just as surely as she knew that it was Wednesday and the sun would rise in the morning. The man was going to jump. No one ever looked that long—that seriously—at the sea at the bottom of a cliff without thinking of becoming a part of it. He was going to jump. And the swelling rage of the waters below roared their welcome.

She screamed before she knew what she was doing. Called out at the top of her lungs and nearly startling him to the next life with her voice alone. Pale blue eyes took up a storm of frenzy, finding her with both annoyance and relief. She was still screaming, but she did not care. He had not jumped.

He had not jumped. And now they were caught in the middle. Captured in one moment together; looking at each other. She did not realize that she had stopped screaming until the dying sound of her voice was thrown back by an angry sea.

No, he had not jumped. Instead, he was looking at her as though she was the most foolish thing he had ever set eyes on, which she wagered was the truth. A steady moment passed between two unremarkable souls. The man at the edge of the cliff, she in her white frock, barely aware of her thundering heart.

Stupid, stupid girl.

“Right,” he said harshly. That was it. One word. Voice thick with something too large to identify. And then he backed away and turned from her, storming intently back to civilization. To the club that sat beyond the quaint wilderness. The place she was sure he was staying.

The place she was staying as well. For now. Until her employer tired of the scene and moved them some place different. Some place that was not here. Not this place.

She released the breath she had been holding when she was alone again.

Convicted. Relieved.

The man had not jumped. The cliff was proud but similarly sullen and empty. The waters below raging in anger over their loss.

Buffy was numb but oddly satisfied. And she turned to leave the cliff just as it was. Proud and alone.

The man had not jumped.

She had a picture of a great house—a mansion, really—captured in time on the face of a postcard. She didn’t know why she carried it everywhere; it was gorgeous, yes, but only a house. A place she would never see. Never know aside from the face on a postcard. She imagined it with wondrous character. A haunting beauty amidst its grace that promised great things should one let its secrets out.

It was one of the few things that she had openly asked Mrs. Harmony Kendall for on their tour of Europe. It had sung to her, whispered from the back corner of some forgotten shop. And granted, while adding a two-cent postcard to her expenses hardly put her employer at a disadvantage, she was still surprised that she had complied. Mrs. Kendall was not a friendly woman, by any definition. She was rather rude and brash, loud-mouthed and far from the place society would prefer to keep her. An elitist snob in a world that was already full of them. And unlike many others, Mrs. Kendall was not the sort of woman one would expect to be entitled to such a stature.

She was the benefactor of Buffy’s paycheck, however; unlike her employer, good manners kept the young girl’s tongue well inside her mouth. She brought Mrs. Kendall her tea every morning, played cards with her when she didn’t feel like venturing out, and read her the morning paper when she said her eyes were too sore to focus. She did everything she was asked to do with quiet poise and grace, or at least as much as a girl of nineteen could. There were times when she felt the world mocked her for her age, and purposefully thrust her into situations where her judgment was intentionally skewed, and she saw things the way a straggler would rather than a person with any sort of sense.

They had been at Monte Carlo for a week now, and Buffy loved it. Despite her duties to her employer, the hotel provided a false sense of freedom that their previous stops had lacked. She enjoyed tennis in the morning and read leisurely in her free time. There was also a swimming pool, and though Buffy had no suit and not the first idea on how to swim, she enjoyed watching the others when the afternoons began to cool. The sort of fascination a child has with a fish bowl, and wondering how it must feel to glide, even for a few seconds.

Most of all, she enjoyed watching the lives of others unfold in a twist of love and scandal that no book could provide. Meals with Mrs. Kendall always proved to be interesting, for it seemed the old woman knew absolutely everything about everyone around her. She explained the love triangle between Mr. and Mrs. Van Buren and the younger busboy that, according to Mrs. Kendall, “Only wants the old bat for her money.” She told tale of the elderly Mr. Scottsdale, and how he came to Monte Carlo every year during this season in search of a poor, heartbroken girl that he could marry and spend the rest of his lonely life with. Similarly, she went on to say that he had nearly been successful twice, only to lose his chance at love when the young ladies discovered his fortune was already willed and divided between his three sons, and nothing anyone could say would tempt him to change that.

It was a Thursday morning that Buffy’s happy little routine was shaken, and she remembered that because the previous day had been Wednesday, and she had seen him on the cliff prior to Mrs. Kendall’s take of midweek communion. The face was familiar, though she didn’t know if she merely knew him from the eerie way he had longingly studied the angry sea, or if she had seen him in the dining room every morning. He seemed out of place as he walked inside. He was alone, which did not surprise her.

His eyes found hers almost immediately, which did.

“My dear,” Mrs. Kendall said in her fat old way, “do you know who that is? That is William de Winter. They say he can’t get over the death of his wife.”

It was strange how much knowledge one could gain from one simple sentence. Buffy felt something rush through her veins, but she did not know what. It was unlike any feeling she had ever endured. An emotion to match his haunted eyes. A feeling. One out of a thousand, and she had it. The reason he had wanted to become one with the sea. It made sense now.

“He owns a great estate, you know,” Mrs. Kendall continued, merrily ignoring the fact that Buffy was not in her circle, and had no way of knowing such things. “The one on your picture. That postcard you wanted me to buy.”

“He owns Manderley?”

“Oh yes. That’s what he calls it. Manderley. What a proud name, don’t you think? I’d imagine he came here to get away from it. His wife died just last year. Horrible tragedy, that was.” And then, to Buffy’s utter horror, Mrs. Kendall raised her voice and waved the poor man over. “Oh, William!”

The man had not looked away from her. His eyes remained trained and focused. The last thing Buffy needed was a report on her horribly embarrassing display the day before. What a fool he must think her. After all, she had never lost anyone close to her. Perhaps death was the more pleasant alternative. Perhaps he hated her for stopping him.

The only thing that made Mrs. Kendall’s display more appalling was the fact that Mr. de Winter seemed prone to listen to her. With a tight, forced smile, he began walking in their direction. His eyes never left Buffy’s face.

“William,” Mrs. Kendall gushed. “I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Harmony Kendall. I was a dear fan of your late wife. We met after a ball, remember? Mrs. de Winter invited your guests to town for a nightcap, as she thought remaining at Manderley would be uncomfortable after such a party. I did not get to go to the actual ball, of course, but Drusilla was kind enough to make an introduction between us. I don’t suppose you remember.”

Buffy stared at Mrs. Kendall in horror before drawing her eyes away to gauge Mr. de Winter’s reaction. His mouth was drawn, tight and unpleasant. That haunted look in his eyes more prominent than the day before when he had sought death.

“On the contrary, I remember quite well,” he replied, cold but disturbingly polite. “There have been many balls.”

“Oh, yes! Some of the very best balls, I believe. She was quite a show woman, your wife. Terrible thing about her passing. I felt simply dreadful. I swear, it shocked the country!” She took an exaggerated sip of her tea. “I have always wanted to see Manderley, if I may be frank. The photographs that I have seen are positively delightful. Like some sort of fantasy world. I wonder how it is that you can leave it at all.”

There was a curious sort of hostility to him. Hostility masking a pain that had not yet mended; had not the time to mend. His silence was deafening.

“Of course, you Englishmen are quite proud of your manors.”

“Yes,” Mr. de Winter agreed grimly, eyes narrowing at her through his detachment, composed but more troubled than ever. Perhaps Mrs. Kendall lacked experience in reading a person’s eyes, but Buffy knew enough to know when a conversation was bothering someone. Imagine dragging the poor man over to the table to do nothing more than speak of his late wife. The very same that he reportedly could not get over, and had come all the way to Monte Carlo to put behind him. How he remained polite, Buffy would never know. Only that he glanced to the ground once, shaken, and shook his head. “I don’t want to keep you from your tea.”

“Oh no!” Mrs. Kendall practically plowed Buffy over as she noisily shifted the seats to accommodate room for him. “I insist you join us, Mr. de Winter. You simply must tell us about Manderley. Who is running the house now, with you gone and Mrs. de Winter dead? I’d hate to think of the estate falling into a state of disrepair as a result of this mess. What a waste.”

Mr. de Winter’s eyes turned cold at that. Cold but troubled, and Buffy couldn’t blame him. She tried to convey her apologies, silent but heartfelt; he did not spare her a look. From where he had watched her from across the room to now, being unable to look at her at all. Yes, it was expected. She didn’t suppose he would ever look at her again.

“Manderley will survive just as well without balls,” he informed Mrs. Kendall. “Or constant supervision. I assure you, my staff is very much accustomed to the extents I take in preserving the house. Though your concern is noted, and touching in its endeavor.” Buffy bit the inside of her cheek to keep from grinning at that. His voice was drenched in hurt sarcasm, biting with the full extent of what her employer deserved. However, he nodded brusquely and took the proffered seat, much to Mrs. Kendall’s astonishment.

Flustered, Mrs. Kendall’s lapse did not last as long as it could have. She cleared her throat and nodded, resituating appropriately. “And how have you found Monte Carlo?”

“I have only just arrived,” he replied, pouring himself some coffee. “The people seem friendly enough.”

There was a point at the end of that statement. A very fine point that Mrs. Kendall missed completely.

Buffy didn’t.

“And you?” he asked kindly in turn, seemingly directed at Mrs. Kendall, though his eyes had once more settled on Buffy’s flaming face. “How do you find Monte Carlo?”

“Oh, lovely!”

Mr. de Winter nodded dismissively, his gaze not abandoning Buffy. “And you?”

Her throat ran dry at that. She was sure he would find her out, now. That hint of girlish inexperience that the wealthy could spot miles off. However, before she could reply, Mrs. Kendall released a long, haughty laugh and waved her hand frivolously. “Young girls never know if they’re truly enjoying anything, as I’m sure you know,” she said. “She’s spoiled, you see. Quite terribly.”

“Is that so?” His tone was deeply cynical, and Buffy felt she was at the pun of a hurtful joke. Then, softer, he turned to her again and said gently, “I haven’t decided if I like it, either.”

“Haven’t you?” Mrs. Kendall interrupted.

“No. I left in a hurry and have only just arrived, as I said.”

“You mean you haven’t been here before?”

Mr. de Winter withdrew again, that ghostly, detached look overwhelming him once more. His body quivering slightly with the weight of emotion that Buffy could not imagine. Once again, she knew immediately where his thoughts had gone, and who with. It wasn’t difficult to see. Buffy might have been a naïve girl, but she was intelligent enough to recognize when one was deep in mourning. And if Mrs. de Winter’s death was not even a full year in the past, the wealth of loss he had endured had to be intolerable.

“I was here once,” he replied after a moment. “About ten years ago.”

He said it as though it was highly significant. Ten years. What could have happened ten years ago to bring him to Monte Carlo? A birthday, perhaps. An anniversary. Or a wedding. His wedding to the late Mrs. de Winter. Drusilla, as Mrs. Kendall called her.

Another thing that her ruthless employer failed to recognize.

“Well, I am certainly glad you decided to return,” Mrs. Kendall said. “Would you care to join us for lunch tomorrow?”

“I don’t believe so, thank you. I intend to drive to Sospel tomorrow, and don’t know when I’ll be back.” He would not elaborate, and Buffy was glad. It was nice to meet someone who did not bow to Mrs. Kendall’s every whim. Mr. de Winter saw everything just as it was, and appeared cruelly humored by the entire matter.

“I do hope you have found your room to be agreeable,” the old woman continued. “I suppose you have enough money to rent out the best of them. Did they have a valet unpack for you? Wonderful thing…valets.”

“I do not require a valet.”

“They did not assign one to you?”

Mr. de Winter grinned wryly. “I think myself capable enough to tend to my matters without asking for the aid of others.”

“Ah, a self-reliant man. Well, if you need anything, I’m sure Buffy would be glad to help.” At that, Mrs. Kendall turned rather roughly to Buffy. “You are to make yourself available to Mr. de Winter if he requires any assistance.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” he objected.

“Nonsense. I insist.”

“I appreciate the thought, Mrs. Kendall,” Mr. de Winter said, standing slowly. “But I do tend to adhere to my family motto. ‘He who travels fastest travels alone.’ Perhaps you have not heard of it.” A cold sort of pause. “I must be going now.” He turned to Buffy shortly and nodded. “It was nice seeing you again.”

Very purposefully, he did not say whether it was nice to see Mrs. Kendall again. Nor did he give her the opportunity to extend the same compliments. Rather, he turned and was off the next instant, moving quickly through the dining room. Leaving the old woman flustered and embarrassed, and Buffy’s face flaming from the intentional attention he had given her as opposed to the calm coolness with which he had regarded her employer.

“Well,” Mrs. Kendall said, drawing her tea to her mouth. “That was rather rash, don’t you think?”

Buffy licked her lips and nodded, though there was no way she could disagree with her more. It amazed her that Mr. de Winter could keep his head as well as he had while under such shameless questioning.

“Men can be that way,” the older woman reasoned. “Though, and don’t think me forward, dear, but your attempts to master the conversation while he was with us did not go unnoticed. Men hate that sort of thing, you know.”

She bit her lip and said nothing. There was nothing to say.

“Oh, don’t look so glum. I’m sure he just brushed it off as something highly trivial. After all, young girls are hardly of any consequence to men of his age.” She chuckled as though she had said something highly amusing and batted a flippant hand. “Well, I suppose you’ll want the afternoon off, won’t you?”

“I—”

“That’s perfectly all right, dear. Off with you. I promised you yesterday, didn’t I? No one will ever say I don’t live up to my promises.” Mrs. Kendall fished out her cigarettes. “Go on. Be back by three for tea.”

Buffy nodded absently, not fool enough to object to random bouts of kindness from her employer. She wiped her mouth on her napkin and stood, leaving the dining room through the same door that Mr. de Winter had exited. She didn’t particularly know where she wanted to go, but even an hour of freedom was more than she had thought to be allowed, with or without Mrs. Kendall’s promise.

Her mind went back to Mr. de Winter almost reluctantly as she set down a woodland path just outside the hotel. There was something about a man suffering so much that touched her heart. Not in the way people would typically express their sorrow; not an obligatory but sincere, “Oh, I’m so sorry,” before moving on to the next thing. She had seen grief before. Her years were not great, but she felt she had grieved sufficiently. Two parents in the ground, leaving her to the employment of Mrs. Kendall. She supposed she should be grateful, and she was in many ways. There was a certain kindness demanded in people who took in orphans and offered them work.

What Mr. de Winter was feeling was beyond grief. She knew that simply by looking at him. The haunted look in his eyes left her feeling as though a part of her had been ripped away. She couldn’t imagine what it was like; loving someone for so long only to have them die when you were still young. She didn’t know Mr. de Winter’s age, of course, and she couldn’t imagine why she ever would. Only that he couldn’t be too old or too young. The young never loved like that, at least not the men her age that she had met over her traveling companionship with Mrs. Kendall. Men her age were flashy and constantly attempting to show off. They knew nothing of the sort of love that could wound a person as Mrs. de Winter’s death had her husband.

All of that simply by looking at him. It made her soul weep.

Buffy released a long sigh and shook her head against the wind, smiling gently at a squirrel as it scurried across the path in front of her. She wondered if there was a niche or a comfortable place to sit. If there was, a secret place of sorts that she could claim for herself during Mrs. Kendall’s stay, she could seek refuge out here with a book or some of her sketches. She didn’t suppose her clumsy hands could do the peaceful serenity justice, but she wanted something with which to remember this place, even if it ended up on a loose scrap of paper.

Another deep breath clamored for freedom, touching the air with soft grace that twisted into a gasp when she realized she was not alone. Right ahead of her, hidden slightly by the turn of the path and growth around it stood Mr. de Winter, a natural statue made around unnatural surroundings, and focused on something buried in the woods. She didn’t know if he heard her or simply sensed he was no longer alone, for he broke his golden stillness and turned until his eyes were on her face, a quaint surprise about him at seeing her again. She felt treasonous for being there, suddenly. For interrupting whatever peace he had been searching for by her own awkward clumsiness.

“I-I…” Buffy shook her head, shuddering. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.”

Before he could respond, she turned to hurry off, practically bolting down the pathway. Ignoring the shouted request that she should stop. Leaving behind the place she had discovered with the knowledge that one could not discover a place that was owned by a lodge.

She had not meant to interrupt. It had simply happened.

Like she had simply run into him the day before. What he must think of her, given the past twenty-four hours. Shouting at him on the ledge. Her awkward behavior today at tea, and now this. Interrupting a private moment. Interrupting his remembering his wife.

Private moments like that could be broken so easily.

What he must think of her now.

If he thought of her at all.

It was a half hour past sundown when the note came. Mrs. Kendall was playing cards with a couple she had somehow befriended that afternoon, leaving Buffy by herself in the bedroom. The boy delivering the note appeared to be all of twelve years old, shiny faced and expectant. The note itself had her name written elegantly across the envelope in an unfamiliar penmanship. The message it carried was brief and bloodless, but it made her heart stop nonetheless.

Forgive me. I was very rude this afternoon.

There was no name on the note. No beginning or signature. However, her name was on the envelope. It was very obviously meant for her.

“Is there a reply, ma’am?” the boy asked.

“No. No reply, thank you.” Buffy licked her lips and tipped him appropriately, taking the note back into the secluded sanctuary of her bedroom. There she read it again, half expecting her name to have disappeared or the message to have changed. But no, it was the same. Still to her, not to Mrs. Kendall.

Forgive me. I was very rude this afternoon.

Mr. de Winter had written her.

For whatever reason, it seemed a better affair if she kept this to herself. Mrs. Kendall would not be pleased if she found out.

A secret between her and Mr. de Winter.

That thought, for whatever reason, was rather pleasing.

Although sudden, there was strangely no surprise when Mrs. Kendall reported that she had taken ill the next morning. While the woman very much thought it unfair that she should be sick while vacationing, there was some deranged sort of satisfaction at being at the center of attention by the full of one’s staff. Not that Mrs. Kendall needed to look if attention was what she sought; it was simply nice to have an excuse to order the hotel’s staff around aside for the call of vanity.

Buffy was certainly not in the same league with the maids and personnel that Mrs. Kendall had fluttering around her. She was a hired traveling companion and had little to do with her employer’s health. She was dismissed from her duties for the day in a matter that was overly dramatic but no less valid, and set out immediately to enjoy herself. There was so much of Monte Carlo that she wanted to see—explore for herself—and Mrs. Kendall’s illness at such time came as the granted wish to a forbidden prayer.

To ease her conscience of any wrongdoing, she called up a doctor before taking her leave. He confirmed that she was not dying but similarly in no condition to go out, and Buffy could have sworn Mrs. Kendall found the news of her not dying to be at some inconvenience. The thought of dragging out the even closer attention of the hotel’s staff was appealing if one ignored the unpleasant mortality issue tagged at the end of such affairs.

She was slightly surprised to see Mr. de Winter in the dining room, eating by himself in some secluded corner. She had thought he was going to Sospel, but quickly concluded that he was likely eating early so he might leave before he ran into her and Mrs. Kendall. And in that, Buffy did not blame him. If she had been put through such a charade that her employer had put on the day before, she would be doing everything to avoid her as well.

Instead, Buffy took a seat at one of the only vacant tables left and smiled as one of the servers across the room eyed her and began in her direction. She felt relaxed and independent for the first time in a long time—the sort of sensation that was notably artificial in nature, but no less appreciated. She knew it wouldn’t last. She could not afford for it to last, and would not know what to do with herself if she was suddenly permitted complete sovereignty. She was a girl on the verge of turning twenty in a world that was much older than she, if not in age then certainly in knowledge.

Almost against her will, she stole a glance at Mr. de Winter and felt her heart leap. He was studying her closely, most curiously. As though trying to figure her out or place her in a long line of memory.

That she should be of any interest to this man was disconcerting enough and that vague sense of self began to wane. She was out of her element, bare and uncomfortable. But at the same time, behind the haunted, stricken look in his eyes was kindness and sincerity. Still, she didn’t like being at the focus of anyone’s attention, least of all strangers that had seen her associating with a woman that was unspeakably rude and of no relation aside from the opposing ends of a paycheck.

She ordered lunch and released a long breath of relief when she was left to herself once more. She sat in silence for a few seconds, inspecting a spot at the corner of her snowy napkin and thinking of how Mrs. Kendall would raise such a fuss if anything of hers came up blemished. The vacant seat across from her was a breath of fresh air, and she made a silent toast once more to her temporary liberation. No matter that she felt certain those with companions today were watching her curiously, wondering what a girl her age was doing dining alone in Monte Carlo. Wondering where her family was; if she had family. Wondering if perhaps she was the young wife of a much older man, and had opted to leave him to his own devices and dine by herself.

There were always angles. She felt certain of that. It was the one absolute in a world of endless questions.

Her small hand trembled under the weight of the scrutiny she felt certain everyone was paying her, and she watched with a dismayed gasp as the glass wavered and tumbled, running long streaks of ice water down the tablecloth. It was not as loud as it sounded to her horrified ears, and her eyes turned automatically downward, scrambling to stem the spill with her spotted napkin.

The server that had taken her order was suddenly attentive and at her side. “Is everything quite all right?”

“Oh yes. I’m so sorry.”

“Nothing to worry about at all.”

She was sure that wasn’t true. Everyone was still staring at her. She was a wandering girl who did not belong in such places. “I am such a clumsy—”

“Excuse me.”

That calm, familiar voice both completed her embarrassment and inspired her with relief. Her skin was hot and her heart was thundering, and Mr. de Winter was there to see it all.

“Mr. de Winter?” the server asked, forgetting Buffy completely in the presence of influential money. “Is there something wrong?”

“No. Ms. Summers will be dining with me.”

Her eyes went wide. “What?”

“Unless there are any objections?” At that, he raised a coy brow, his blue eyes twinkling for the first time. And she knew then that she was lost. No matter her objection, there was something about a man that looked so boyish, so free, that made her acutely aware of herself but in a way that was almost as natural as it was disarming.

“I-it’s not necessary, Mr. de Winter—”

“Of course not. That’s why I insist.”

“The tablecloth will dry—”

“I am sure it will, but it does not require your supervision.” Mr. de Winter extended his hand and waited patiently until she took it, her skin tingling at the warmth of his touch. “There, now. That wasn’t too hard, was it?”

“Mr. de Winter, I am very grateful, but I do not wish to be an inconvenience.”

“Good. Because I bloody hate being put at one. You’re no inconvenience whatsoever, though I do find this conversation to be entirely inconvenient as we could both be at my table, enjoying one another’s company rather than standing beside a damp tablecloth.” The warmth in his eyes did not dwindle, but his countenance became more serious and he abruptly tugged her to her feet. “We do not have to speak, if you like. But I would very much like your company.”

There was no good way to refuse the offer when dressed up so nicely. She agreed awkwardly and felt a strange rush of adrenaline as Mr. de Winter led her to his table, never once releasing her hand.

“What happened to your friend?” he asked once she was settled across from him. “Did she decide she didn’t like Monte Carlo as much as she was boasting yesterday?”

“Oh, no. She was taken ill.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“The doctor says it’s nothing serious. She should be well within a few days.”

“All will be well with the world then, I suppose?” he retorted, taking a long drink of whatever it was he was drinking. “How do you know each other? I would assume some relation, but for the way she treated you yesterday—”

“She is my employer, Mr. de Winter.”

“Employer.” He repeated the word so that it was not a question, rather a statement of fact, and raised one cool brow to tag along with it. “How interesting. What is it that you do for Mrs. Kendall?”

“I am her companion while she travels.”

“That’s all?”

“That is all she has asked of me,” Buffy agreed with a nod, taking a self-conscious sip of her water, thankful when her clumsy hands did not fail her again. “I travel with her.”

“How well does she pay?”

“Ninety pounds a year.” The amount was great to one who had no wealth, but Buffy wagered money was something that Mr. de Winter never had to worry about. She felt rather foolish, naming the sum as though it was something to be proud of. Something to aspire to. Something that wasn’t nothing at all when she was sitting with a man who could likely own the world if he wanted.

However, if Mr. de Winter was astonished or thought ill of her for her lack of prosperity, he did not say so, or even allow the slightest hint of emotion to creep into his eyes. He remained as he ever was: quiet and kind, nodding once to confirm he had heard her. “I did not think companionship of that nature,” he said carefully, smiling a smile she didn’t quite understand, but felt prone to share nonetheless, “was something one offered for a price.”

“When one has no family, one’s prospects are considerably limited.”

“Very true.” A pause. “You have no family?”

“None.”

The smile on his lips tugged with amusement. “I don’t suppose you’re the product of an immaculate conception. What happened?” Another pause at that; the smile dissolved into a self-aimed frown, and he shot her a worried look. “Stop me if I’m being too brash.”

“Not at all,” Buffy assured him, settling comfortably against her seat. She was feeling surer of herself, though the reason for his seeking her out for companionship was still somewhat beyond her. Perhaps it was as Mrs. Kendall had suggested the day before, though the thought of the woman was not one she wanted surfacing now. “My parents died,” she continued. “I haven’t anyone.”

“Aside from Mrs. Kendall.”

“Yes, aside from her.”

“And I’m sure she’s more company than a person could want to have.” A strange look crossed his eyes, and he took another taste of whatever it was that he was drinking. “You got my note, I hope, apologizing for my behavior yesterday?”

“Yes. Mr. de Winter—”

“I had hoped so. I was unforgivably rude.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he argued, the smile returning. “I did not mean to take my temper out on you, Ms. Summers. You have an unfortunate relation, and I hope you don’t mind my saying so.”

She didn’t mind. She agreed. Mrs. Kendall was appallingly tasteless at times, and the woman either didn’t notice her own behavior or didn’t care. Either way, what had been said yesterday was nearly unforgivable. The fact that Mr. de Winter wanted anything to do with her at all was as astounding as it was a relief. The offense had not spread, despite its leave to do so, and he had invited her to lunch with him when he had absolutely no reason to grant her even a passing glance.

“I cannot afford to be picky,” she countered, “despite however much I might agree with you. My options are not boundless.”

“You handle yourself well,” Mr. de Winter replied ambiguously, not responding fully one way or another.

“Thank you.”

He arched a brow. “You don’t agree?”

“I think you are very kind for saying so.”

“But you don’t think I am being sincere.”

She had no answer, her eyes turning to the tablecloth. To her napkin that had no spot. Her hands folded promptly in her lap. Sitting there under his scrutiny, feeling awkward and misplaced.

She finally glanced up when she heard him sigh, his attention turning to the lunch that was suddenly placed in front of them. “There is much life ahead of you,” he said. “You will find there are many people who don’t handle themselves at all. Others who do so poorly. And you discover almost immediately how to distinguish the various sorts of people from others. Believe me, Ms. Summers, when you place yourself at a table beside Mrs. Kendall, the line between you is so prominent a blind man could see it.”

Buffy felt her body go very still with the weight of unspoken responsibility, and she met his gaze slowly. “Thank you,” she said again when there was nothing else to say, swallowing hard.

Mr. de Winter’s smile returned and he took a bite of broiled chicken. “Why do you suppose I attracted Mrs. Kendall’s attention?” he asked, deftly switching the topic.

“She does it with everyone she considers important,” she replied honestly. “She meant no offense.”

“But she considers me important?” He appeared amused by the insinuation. “I suppose I ought to be flattered. Any idea why?”

Buffy hesitated. “I think because of Manderley,” she said a second later, and instantly regretted the words. The easy look behind Mr. de Winter’s eyes faded, as though someone had extinguished his flame, and she was suddenly exploring forbidden territory. She didn’t know whether or not it was appropriate to withdraw her observation or apologize for being so brash, but could not help but feel that it would only make what she said worse. Instead, she opted to allow the uncomfortable air to pass, sipping at her water. Listening to the bustle of people around them.

When he spoke again, it nearly startled her out of her skin.

“You left me rather abruptly yesterday.”

She thought of the look in his eyes the day before when she stumbled over him on the woodland path. That worried sheen to coincide with his puzzlement as to her presence there, and likely anger buried somewhere deep that even he had not yet acknowledged.

“I thought I was interrupting you.”

He arched a teasing brow. “I was standing in the middle of nothing,” he countered. “Hardly anything to interrupt.”

“You looked—”

“Frightening you away was my last intention.”

Buffy licked her lips. “I only thought—”

“It’s all right.” He smiled. “Would you indulge me after we’re finished?”

“Indulge you?”

“Take a drive with me.”

Her eyes went wide. “A drive? I thought you were going to Sospel.”

“I think I would rather take a drive.” He took another bite of his chicken, grinning. “What I have to do in Sospel is nothing more than some personal affairs. None that really require immediate attention.”

“But if—”

“That’s a polite way of saying I don’t want to go. Give me a reason not to?”

At that, she could do nothing but smile at his insistence. There was a boyish charm about him that wore classically in his experienced eyes. That sort of knowledge that only age could bring, polished with just enough youth to make her feel completely comfortable with him when she was otherwise clunky and discomfited. An extension of that false sense of security that independence bought. The same that would dissolve just as easily when she was placed back in her element.

“If you’re sure it would not be an inconvenience…” she said.

“I believe I have already told you what I think of inconveniences,” he replied. “You are not an inconvenience, Ms. Summers, no matter what your employer might have you believe. And I would not be so persistent if I thought you were. I find you pleasant and your company more than agreeable.”

“I am not—”

He held up a hand. “If you’re about to make some objection about me or some diluted observation on your perception of your own character, I would prefer you not. You have succeeded in bringing me out of myself. Taking me away from the person I was just yesterday.”

“I don’t understand.”

A grim smile drew across his lips, and his eyes distanced in that way that she was already beginning to dread. That look of remembrance, the stirring of a memory he was trying to forget. The life he had come to Monte Carlo to put behind him. “No. I don’t suppose you would.”

They didn’t speak again until they left the hotel. An awkward distance between them, Buffy feeling little more than a hired hand in an extent of her duties, though for someone she liked a great deal more than Mrs. Kendall. Despite how Mr. de Winter tried to guise his intent, she simply could not see why he would select her to accompany him when there were many women present in want of a companion who ran in his circle.

“Has your opinion of Monte Carlo improved since yesterday?” he asked when they were in the car. “Or was that another part of Mrs. Kendall’s exaggeration?”

“I find Monte Carlo pleasant,” she replied honestly.

“More so than yesterday?”

This seemed important to him.

She smiled. “I am enjoying myself much more today.”

It was not a lie; it was a dangerous truth. She didn’t want to enjoy the day because it would end, and the dreary reality of her life would return. Mr. de Winter was one of the nicest men she had ever met, and that in itself was a terrible folly. She was a young girl, easily impressionable, and his attentions even since that first day on the bluff were doing much to make her head spin in confusion.

Mr. de Winter was lonely. His wife was dead. He needed companionship.

As long as her heart didn’t decide to get foolish, Buffy supposed there was no danger in giving him what he craved.

She stole a glance in his direction and felt an unfamiliar sensation swell in her chest. Perhaps it was too late to ask her heart to refrain from involvement. The man was a dashing bit of mystery. The sort of man she wanted to get to know better. She thought again of all the women he could have chosen to share himself with. The sort that would admittedly be after him for his money while similarly providing what he needed. A passing as he recovered from the one woman in his life that could not be replaced by all the agreeable company in the world.

“How long have you been employed by Mrs. Kendall?” Mr. de Winter asked once they were a comfortable distance from the hotel.

“It hasn’t been long,” Buffy replied. “Really, I lose track of the months.”

“Just months?”

“I prefer to count by months when in bad company. It makes the time go quicker.”

His rich laughter startled her and brought upon an odd sense of accomplishment, but he said nothing more. Just settled in his own sense of superior amusement that was as natural as it was appealing, and she turned her attention back to the flourishing scenery around her.

To think, she was out here with Mr. de Winter, providing something he needed much more than Mrs. Kendall did. Granting some form of comfort when there was nothing else. Aside from her brief mention of Manderley, he seemed years away from the man he had been just two days ago. The man that overlooked the bluff with cold, lost eyes. Stormed, tormented by the loss of someone he had thought to spend his life with. Buffy was with him now, helping in a way that was still beyond her. Helping him when she would otherwise be playing tennis or sketching some poor depiction of nature’s various anomalies.

He tossed her a meaningless glance that warmed her heart for everything that was dangerous in the world of a young girl. When she first met him, she would have guessed his age to be upwards of forty. Now he looked barely ten years of that. As though a large weight had been lifted, and he could begin to live once more.

That thought fed poison to the tranquility surrounding them. The car came to a sudden halt, the casualness about the air drowning just as quickly, a storm settling in his previously clear eyes. Buffy watched him for a long troubled minute, then turned her attention to the road that stretched ahead of them. She did not see what he saw. Saw nothing aside the woods that cushioned the street and the hint of wildlife that curled around the pavement. There was nothing.

“Mr. de Winter?”

He did not respond. She studied him a moment longer before realizing that he wasn’t looking at the street itself, rather a small brush to the side. Something barely noticeable to anyone who was not searching for it. It had the outward show of being manmade for the purpose of appearing natural. Some quaint bit of forestry she could imagine being used for a number of things, though why he should be so troubled by it…

It was then that she remembered that he had been to Monte Carlo once before. With Mrs. de Winter. The wife he had lost. The woman who should be with him now. The one he was using her to forget.

Buffy drew a steady breath and placed a cautious hand on his arm. “Mr. de Winter?”

She didn’t know if it was the touch or the sound of his name that jarred him back to her. Perhaps it was the combination. The dual jolts of remembrance that he was not alone, and that it was not his wife that sat next to him. No, she imagined herself a great disappointment when he glanced back to her. Drew himself back to the place he had been at just a second before. Back to the girl that was not Mrs. de Winter. Back to a wide-eyed, awkward girl of such a lesser status.

A girl of no money. No family. No connections. Nothing whatsoever. A girl that he would forget just as easily when she was gone. A girl whose name would perhaps cross his mind once every twenty years. He would wonder about her absently, she imagined, when he thought of her at all. Wonder where she was. Try to remember her name. Wonder if she had married and had children. And then, as all passing things, all thought of her would abandon him again until something brought her memory back to him. That was the way it would be. The way things would always be between them.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. de Winter said, his tone distant. He ignited the engine and the car was moving again within a few easy seconds, much faster than before.

Buffy licked her lips self-consciously and settled back. She edged her feet back under her seat until they brushed against something nestled beneath the cushion. Curious, and looking for anything to distract her from the haunted look in the man’s eyes, she leaned forward and felt around until she had a good grasp on the object. Good enough to dislodge it with a tug.

Mr. de Winter tossed her a brief glance. “Find something?”

“A book.”

“Ah,” he mused, nodding. “Poetry anthology.”

“Poetry?”

“Yes. Are you a fan?”

“I don’t read much poetry.”

He looked at her, his eyes twinkling once more. “You’re free to take it, if you like.”

“Take it?”

“Sure. There are some poems in there every young woman should read.”

That perplexed her for a few seconds until she hazarded a guess at his meaning and flushed with the implication. Either way, she thanked him and settled the anthology on her lap, her gaze returning to the scenery before her.

It wouldn’t be until later that she understood why he kept it with him at all times. The inside was inscribed in graceful penmanship: Spike—from Drusilla. The level of trust he placed in her to hand over something so priceless humbled her girlish sentiment. And she noted to take special care of the book until it was safely back in his hands.

Honor was one of two emotions the message inspired, and the second troubled her greatly. There were many things in the world she didn’t understand. The jealousy the note spurred was one of them. Mr. de Winter was kind to her, but that was as far as it went. She was a passing whimsy. He would forget her as easily as he had met her. And life would return.

Buffy would never forget him, though. That much she knew.

These few days with him would remain with her for the rest of her life.

She simply had yet to understand why.

 

It was the third morning following Mrs. Kendall’s sickness that Buffy realized she was falling in love. For the first time in her young life, she was falling in love. It started as a fear; a knowledge that love like hers could never be rekindled. A sickening realization that these few days with Mr. de Winter would be the only ones she would have. The sensation inspired an odd combination of anxiousness and regret with every wake. It was another day to spend in his company, and another day closer to leaving him forever. To becoming that shadowed, nameless memory that he would associate with her in years to come.

Perhaps it would have been easier had he not treated her with more kindness than anyone ever had. It wasn’t that she felt older with him; rather, the full weight of their difference in age seemed the most prominent when they were together. She learned through one of their longer discussions that he had about ten years on her, which was surprising because he pulled off a variety of different ages. There were some days when he looked like a schoolboy; other days when a memory struck him in just a way to bring the full of his age into his eyes.

Buffy found herself slipping into a frighteningly comfortable pattern. She was no longer surprised when she saw him waiting for her at breakfast. They had dined together at every chance since he had taken her on that initial drive. He joked with her, teased her, warmed her with his laughter, taught her things about life without seeming to realize it. And yet, despite his seemingly casual candor with her, there was never a time that she was far from the memory of his first wife. Never a time when his ghosts left him behind. Inevitably, she would say something without thinking and find herself overwhelmed with a growingly familiar sense of inferiority.

Knowing when he looked at her, he wished another pair of eyes would look back.

Wishing that she was someone else. That she wasn’t just the filler for the woman he had lost.

She was resigned, though. Mr. de Winter would never love her the way she loved him and that was simply the way it was. She would go on as would he. She would go on and carry these few days with her. Cherish what small joy she had found, however agonized it was with the realization of its mortality.

It was mid-afternoon and she was enjoying the calm warmth of the day in one of the wooded areas she had discovered earlier in the week. The grass around her was soft, slightly damp from the recent rainstorm. She had her notebook and her sketch pencils with her, though the page was blank. Her talents were amateur; she had no delusions of greatness. It was a passing whim. Something to fill her days when there was nothing else.

Today, though, her thoughts were elsewhere. She couldn’t focus. Couldn’t find that natural anomaly to immortalize in her sketchbook. Her insides were overwhelmed with conflicting feelings, thoughts of Mr. de Winter and the future haunting her for the life they would never have. Schoolgirl wiles and wishes that tortured most adolescent minds. She knew that her feelings were no greater than any other girl’s, and that they would pass just as easily.

She also knew that most girls likely received the same doting amount of attention from their unrequited loves, and they, like her, wanted to perceive it as something more. Something that was there when in fact there was nothing.

There was just nothing.

Buffy released a wistful sigh and turned her eyes once more to the blank sheet staring up at her. Her thoughts were locked away somewhere, what little talent she had captured in a torrent of apprehension. She knew she could not escape the day without seeing Mr. de Winter, which overwhelmed her for the knowledge that every second spent was another second lost. Being with him was unexplainable. Painful. She was too young to carry such a burden of emotion. To feel the things that were surging through her veins. The sensation welling inside that was so deep, so painful that it could only be love.

Love. It was unthinkable. It was wonderful. She had read a book once on love. Some forgotten novel picked up and left behind a year or two ago. She had such little time to herself, and Mrs. Kendall didn’t advocate reading as pastime. Men, she said, had very little esteem for a woman who thought the printed word was more important for the spoken one. Men liked women who were athletic when need be and obedient at all other intervals. Men did not like women like her. Women who were in that awkward stage between adolescence and adulthood. Women who were little girls trying to fit in larger shoes.

She mindlessly began sketching an oddly shaped leaf, Mr. de Winter’s face flooding her vision. The book she’d read had not described the swelling feeling clamoring her heart. The way she felt she couldn’t breathe if she stopped to think of it. The thought of seeing him again filled her with both the most unimaginable bliss and the worst pain of foreboding. It was difficult knowing that it was ending. Every second that passed brought her association with him closer to its finish.

She wondered if other young women who were unfortunate enough to fall in love with older men, men who could never love them back, knew enough to realize that every second was precious. Every second moved them closer to parting. And she would spend years cherishing these few days, and he would spend years living a life without giving her much thought at all.

That thought surfaced with disturbing regularity. She was sitting by herself in the middle of a secluded wood, outlining the veins of the awkward leaf into her sketchbook. It was nice here. Away from the hotel. Away from Mrs. Kendall. Sitting by herself, listening to nature unfold around her. As though she was miles away from the ordinary—whatever ordinary a girl like her could hope to find.

“Ms. Summers.” A familiar warm baritone touched the air, startling her from her reverie. “What a pleasant surprise.”

A gasp clawed at Buffy’s throat and she immediately leapt to her feet, her sketchbook tumbling to the grass as her hands instinctively began wiping dirt and greenery from her summer frock. “Mr. de Winter,” she said, heart racing. She felt for an instant that she was back at school and the instructor had caught her daydreaming during a lecture. How unfortunate that Mr. de Winter should wander upon her while her mind entertained sad thoughts of the lonely future without him. “I’m so sorry, I—”

There was an odd twist of amusement and perplexity behind his friendly, however burdened eyes. “Sorry?” he mused. “Yes, I suppose that is appropriate. After all, you were rather rudely sitting there, minding your own business before I happened upon you. An apology is definitely in order.”

She didn’t hear the tease in his voice. Her face flamed. “Oh, yes. I’m—”

Mr. de Winter chuckled disarmingly and held up a hand. “Please,” he said, “I didn’t mean to startle you. The weather isn’t so hot today, so I thought I’d go for a walk. I had thought to ask you to come with me, but you weren’t in the dining room or with the tennis instructor; I supposed you were busy with Mrs. Kendall and didn’t want to risk offense by asking for your company instead of hers.”

“She’s sick,” Buffy countered weakly.

“Still?”

He spoke it as though he didn’t already know it was the truth. As though they hadn’t spent the days together, driving and discussing little nothings that meant a world of something to her. Naturally, Buffy couldn’t expect a word she said to mean anything to him, but the thought hurt just the same.

Were Mrs. de Winter alive, she would entertain her husband in a number of ways, and he wouldn’t feel so charitable. He likely wouldn’t have given her a second glance.

“Yes. The doctor won’t let her out of her room.”

“How tragic,” he replied, though his tone betrayed a strain of apathy that was too strong to miss. “Well, now that I have found where you’ve been hiding, do you suppose I could talk you into accompanying me?”

“I haven’t been hiding.”

He arched a cool brow. “No?”

“I was drawing.”

“Ah yes. The infamous artist.” Her face flamed even more. He’d pestered her for two days for a glance at her work. She was too ashamed to show him any; her work was not to be seen. Unimpressive scribbles by her equally unimpressive hand. She didn’t want him to know that the length of her mediocrity traced all the way to the most mundane of pastimes. “Perhaps you’ll let me see your work today.”

“It’s not good,” she said quickly, bending over to collect her abandoned sketchbook, hastily drawing the cover over the images that flawed the formerly white parchment. “Just a hobby.”

“An artist rarely likes her own work, Ms. Summers. If they do, they’re either insipid or have mastered overusing some obscure technique to the point of redundancy. Besides, you’re so young.” He smiled almost hollowly. “Years await you to perfect your talent.”

Then, without warning, he snatched the book from her and opened it to the page she had been working on. The deformed leaf with the half-completed veins, surrounded almost absently in shrubbery that was blurred with smudge marks. Tattered and ugly. Nothing fitting for a man of Mr. de Winter’s taste. Her work was just a way to pass the time. She had no delusions of greatness, be it in artwork or any other of life’s venues.

Her eyes fell to the ground and settled on an anthill. A rather small, unimposing anthill with swarms of small insects venturing into a forest of grass blades. They were building it, she realized. A small colony constructing their home in the midst of this small forest. It wasn’t remarkable, she knew. There were thousands of anthills just like it—thousands more that were grandiose and others that were even less noticeable than the one at her feet.

Only there was only one of these. Only one of this particular anthill. There could only be one of anything, be it an insect or a person. Or a moment like the one she was trapped in. The memories building around these few days, fragmented into a series of moments. Moments captured atop cliffs when she thought she was saving a person from death. Moments captured while spilling a glass of water onto a spotted napkin. Moments composed of seconds. There would never be another moment like this one. Another moment where she studied an anthill with the hope of distracting herself from the reality of Mr. de Winter. Mr. de Winter standing before her now, studying her sketchbook as though it was something important. Treating her as though she was more than just an ordinary girl in an ordinary dress. As though these few days meant more to him than they did. More than they possibly could.

“You drew this?” he asked softly, snapping her back to herself.

“Yes.”

He was silent for a long minute. He closed the sketchbook and handed it back to her, his eyes never leaving her face.

“They’re just scribbles,” she said.

“They’re very good.”

Buffy frowned. Why did he insist on teasing her? “They are not, but I—”

“Don’t argue with me, Ms. Summers. I know good work when I see it. If they weren’t any good, I would tell you. You’ll find I’m not the type to stroke your ego to spare your feelings. I say things just as they are.” He paused a second as though waiting a response, but she had none to offer. When he spoke again, his voice was softer. Kinder. That warm sincerity she was beginning to cherish kindling his eyes. “Your drawings are very good. You have more talent at such an age than many find in an entire career. Don’t give this up, all right?”

The words were not harsh but they seemed it. Suddenly, she felt small. Small like the ants crawling at her feet. The ants that swarmed around their pedestrian creation and were somehow prouder of their accomplishments than she could ever be of hers. She envied them for a long minute. Life for them seemed so simple.

“I’m sorry,” Mr. de Winter said a second later, surprising her. “I shouldn’t have…I just hate seeing talent go to waste. There are so many people in this world that have none. You have it, Buffy. You really have it.”

She was so startled by his use of her given name that she nearly tripped, which would have destroyed the anthill that had suddenly become the basis of comparison for her own universe.

He sensed the change the minute that she did, and his eyes met hers with quiet severity. “Forgive me, Ms. Summers,” he continued somberly. As though the role of her name off his tongue was something dangerous and unspeakable. As though he had crossed some invisible threshold and committed a great sin against the dead. She immediately lamented the reassertion of formality. Her name on his tongue had the taste of honey. Something cherished. Something savored. It had not sounded like her name at all, rather something elegant and mysterious. Not the name of a girl with calloused hands of a would-be artist. A girl standing before him in her summer dress, her skin marred with dirt.

“Forgive you?”

He nodded. “My mouth has a way with running away from me. Obviously, what you do with your sketches is up to you. I just…you’re too good to not do something with it.” He released a deep breath, a note of resignation rolling off his shoulders. “I haven’t offended you to such a point that you would decline to join me, have I?”

The words didn’t register at first; Buffy’s eyes were fixed on the notebook in his grasp. Then slowly, the weight of his gaze on her holding her down until there was nothing to do but answer its call. “Join you?”

“Yes. I believe that I mentioned I was going to walk the path and back again.” He smiled softly and tucked the sketchbook under his arm. “Since I arrived here, I’ve fallen into a bad habit of lapsing on my exercise.”

She couldn’t imagine Mr. de Winter needing exercise, but found herself incapable of anything but compliance. With a tender nod, she curled a hand around his proffered arm, and they set about the trail side by side. Tacit. Their arms touching, her fingers rubbing the material of his jacket. She felt the warmth burning through his body. The very real presence of him beside her. This was as close as she would get.

As close as anyone could get to a man that had lost what he had lost.

“You said you go on walks often?”

Did that brave voice belong to her? Her heart was thundering.

Mr. de Winter drew in a long breath, his body language suddenly rigid. She felt, without any warning, that she had crossed an invisible line. “Yes,” he replied after a long minute. “Often. At Manderley.”

Manderley. That place of grand statute that kept secrets and memories hidden behind doorless rooms that had neither entrance nor exit. Manderley that harbored so much more than just furniture and grandeur. Manderley that had been his home with his wife. With his lost beloved.

His home with Drusilla.

And being the foolish child she was, Buffy couldn’t keep her mouth from imploring on its inquisitive venue. With as much as she understood Mr. de Winter’s need for privacy, her curiosity about Drusilla was in its first steps of a long road to discovery. The same notion, however, recognized and understood that trespassing on the man’s memories when she knew so little about him or what horrors resided in his past.

Despite being hopelessly in love with him.

“I’d imagine,” she said cautiously, “the grounds at Manderley to be quite—”

“They’re lovely,” he said shortly. Cut off from her. Warmth did not touch his voice. There was nothing but the note of finality that warned her clearly to desist her questions. This was something he was not ready to discuss.

Something that reminded him of home.

“The forest is lovely,” Buffy commented, feeling idle and imprudent. She needed very badly to swipe the path clean of the damage she had done. “I don’t suppose there is a place where you can feel more secluded.”

“Oh?” he replied, his voice non-committal. Unattached.

Buffy nodded. “I know it’s not so,” she said. “The hotel is so close. The roads. The city. Life just beyond the trees. But…” A long sigh escaped her lips. “It’s so simple to forget. Life here seems just here. No other world beyond the forest.”

A wry grin pressed to his mouth. “Our own little Garden of Eden, love?”

She frowned, her heart fluttering. His voice had seemed different just then. Rougher. Less proper. Like a man struggling through layers of skin, guarded by the eyes that watched her now.

Love?

“The Garden of Eden was paradise,” she replied.

“Yes,” Mr. de Winter agreed. His voice was again masked with poise. That isolated elegance that teetered so close to her heart. “Wouldn’t it be nice, though? A garden here where none could bother us. Where the world that you mentioned didn’t exist. I think I would like that very much.”

What he meant was, he would like to escape the knowledge of his hurt. The tattered scrapings of a slowly mending heart that only a full break could heal. That thin veil between reality and nonreality. Mr. de Winter needed to forget. And she could not forget that for one second. Could not mistake the warmth in his demeanor for anything but a longing for what he had lost.

“Mr. de Winter,” Buffy said suddenly, feeling an unexpected rush of bravado. “I do appreciate your…you’ve been so kind to me. Ever since that first day, you have shown me nothing but compassion, bearing in mind the societal barriers between us. I just hope you don’t…there is no need to be charitable simply because—”

A cold draft settled over them as the dreaded word escaped her lips. Mr. de Winter drew in a sharp, angry breath. “Charitable?”

The word was not spoken so much as barked.

Buffy froze. “Mr. de Winter—”

“You think I’m out here walking with you to be charitable?” He seized her arm, her sketchbook clamoring carelessly to the forest floor. “You think I spend my time with you just to reach out to those I think are beneath me? That you’re some sort of…what, hobby?”

“I don’t know. I—”

“You don’t know? Well, isn’t that rich.” His azure eyes flamed dangerously. “You’re the only reason I’m still here, Ms. Summers. The only reason I haven’t left Monte Carlo. I’ve been dead for months. I was dead, do you understand? I was dead, and now I’m not. You changed that. You make me feel something I haven’t felt since—” He cut off abruptly, his gaze widening with the realization of what treacherous words were about to cross his lips. Something heavy fell within him; something she could see simply for the hold he had her in. His fingers digging into her forearm, not quite enough to hurt, but she knew well that moving was not an option.

It wasn’t possible. She knew it wasn’t possible. Whatever he said now remained beyond his actual meaning. Beyond the full truth. It didn’t change the deadness of his demeanor even when he seemed relaxed. The dull softness around a spirit she saw once as being vibrant. Full of more life in a year than she would know what to do with in a thousand.

“Do you understand?” he rasped, shaking her once. He was angry. He was more than angry; he was enraged. And it frightened her. “Do you?”

She didn’t. She couldn’t, especially if he was not being honest with her. But this random bout of fury inspired fear that was stronger than her integrity, and she felt herself nodding before her voice could interfere.

He had a probe in her mind, she was certain. He could see everything she wasn’t saying. “I don’t believe you. But it’s a start.” He released her just as quickly, spinning on his heel and striding intently back for the hotel. “And stop this ‘Mr. de Winter’ nonsense.”

Buffy clamored awkwardly, gathering her sketchbook and running after him. “What?”

“It’s William, Buffy. That’s what you call me.” The world stopped turning. His heavy paces subsided the instant the words left his mouth, and he halted to look back at her. “Are we understood?”

Yes. Yes, they were quite understood.

There were certain things they would never talk about. Certain things about him that she would never know.

Another day was slowly melting away. Another day before she left him forever.

And until then, she was to call him William.

Buffy was quite sure she had never felt such a wealth of absolute despair as she did the morning that Mrs. Kendall informed her that their time in Monte Carlo was over. The small, happy reality she had been entertaining for days had collapsed as she had so feared it would. That emptiness that she had been dreading consumed her thoroughly, leaving the bland days of her meaningless future even more barren than even her imagination could portray.

It was the end of the world. She knew it had to be.

Parting from one’s love could be nothing less than the end of the world.

“Why?” she heard herself demanding, shocked at her own brazenness but unable to help herself. What girl could, when her heart was breaking? She had just been told that Mrs. Kendall was taking her away from the man she loved, and she would never see him again.

“Why?” Mrs. Kendall repeated, her thick brows arching. “Goodness, girl, it doesn’t matter why. We’re leaving, and that’s all there is to it.”

Not all, Buffy thought, her insides ripping apart. Not all.

“There is no sense standing there so idly,” the old woman continued, this time with a harsher scold in her tone. “We must be off immediately. My eldest is getting married, and she absolutely can’t be without me. And, as you know, I tire so of Monte Carlo. The air is no longer agreeable.” She sighed heavily. “You’ll have an hour to pack your things.”

Buffy balked, and again her tongue interfered with her better senses. “An hour? Only an hour?”

Mrs. Kendall frowned. “Do you have a problem, Buffy?”

She glanced up sharply, her heart in her throat. “A problem?” she echoed. “Oh. No, Mrs. Kendall. There is no problem.”

No. There was no problem. No problem at all.

No problem aside from her breaking heart.

“Good,” Mrs. Kendall replied promptly, nodding. “I expect you to be ready within an hour. I’ll have one of the staff pack up your belongings.”

Buffy thought of the book that William had given her, and shook her head before thinking. “No. Allow me.”

“Whatever for?”

She swallowed hard at that. Mrs. Kendall would never believe that Buffy owned anything of value; anything that she would want hidden from eyes that were not her own. And while she suspected that anyone that happened to stumble across her book would do little more than blink at it disinterestedly, the idea alone felt like an invasion of privacy.

William had given her that book. William had given her something precious. Something sacred.

Something that Drusilla had touched.

“Please, Mrs. Kendall,” Buffy said softly. “I will not take long. I would simply prefer to pack my own belongings.”

But first—before she horded her life away—she needed to see William. She needed to look at him one more time. She needed to memorize every contour of his handsome face, so she would have something to take with her and remember as she grew older. Her first love—her only love. She needed to see William before she went away. Before she never saw him again.

Buffy made quick work of packing; she didn’t have much, after all, and other than William’s book, she didn’t care too deeply for any of her things to be cautious and methodical. As a paid companion, her wardrobe rarely strayed from the same, boring frock that William had first seen her in.

When he’d stood at the edge of a cliff, and she’d been so worried that he was going to jump.

She completed packing with more than enough time to spare. Mrs. Kendall was off, bickering with the management about the bill for their room, and likely would not return for the better part of an hour. While her employer liked the pretense that she was on a strict timetable—that she was at the demand of every high ranking member of society—the truth was far less forgiving. If Buffy waited in her room, as was expected, she might well find herself waiting for hours.

There was more than enough time to see William. More than enough time to say goodbye. Thus, collecting the book that he had placed in her care—the book from his beloved Drusilla—Buffy drew in a deep breath and left her room. She crossed the threshold from the place where she belonged and entered the long stretch of corridor that separated their worlds.

Her legs were lead. Drusilla’s book was pressed to her chest. She felt her heart thundering against the leather-bound surface. Her skin was foreign. She was not the girl he had met. No, William had changed her. Knowing William had changed her. He had awakened something within her that she was too young to understand.

The word love was terrifying, but it did not change how she felt. She knew she was in love, just as she knew she had to say goodbye. Just as she knew that she would never see him again.

Just as she knew she would leave her heart in Monte Carlo.

Buffy pursed her lips and paused awkwardly outside his room. He had given her the number yesterday—or was it the day before?—likely thinking that she would never have use of it. It was a courtesy. A way of sharing something with her, given everything of herself that she had shared with him. She was about to invade his space—William’s space. Space where she was not welcome. Space where he lived with Drusilla’s memory.

But she had to return the book. She had to return the book, and she had to say goodbye.

She would never forgive herself if she did not say goodbye.

It was that thought that filled her with enough courage to raise her fist to the door and knock. She was certain that her heart would leap through her chest with as hard as it was pounding. The seconds that filled the empty silence were the longest of her life.

There was movement on the other side of the door. Footsteps. She pictured him swearing under his breath for the intrusion. She pictured the look that would undoubtedly storm his eyes when he opened the door—the calm restrained sort of irritation. He would wonder why the foolish child he’d spent the past few days entertaining was presuming so much as to stand at his threshold, open-faced and expectant.

Buffy was almost surprised when the door finally opened. In such a small amount of time, she had imagined this moment over and over, thus it felt that she was watching a waking illusion. The impact of his blue eyes crashing with hers knocked the wind out of her chest. If she lived a thousand years, she would never forget the raw power he commanded with a simple glance. Their gazes clashed, and the floor beneath her feet vanished.

“Buffy,” he said, blinking. The surprised note in his voice was enough to send her crashing back to earth. He hadn’t expected her. Of course he hadn’t expected her. She was very much intruding on his private time. “Is something wrong?”

“I came to return your book.”

Confusion flashed across his face, his gaze dropping to the package she had bundled against her breast. “My book,” he repeated, the light in his eyes dimming. “I see. Have you tired of it so soon? Certainly you haven’t had time to—”

“No. No, I’m so sorry. I…” She drew in a sharp breath. “Mrs. Kendall and I are leaving, you see. She has decided that…” Buffy shivered and forced her eyes away from his. If she looked at him as she spoke, if she watched his face, the dam would break and she would dissolve into a mess of foolish, girlish tears. “The air in Monte Carlo no longer agrees with her. We are to leave this very morning. I have to return your book now. I have to…say goodbye.”

There was nothing for a very long minute.

“Goodbye—”

“Come inside, Buffy.” He stepped aside and held the door open. “Join me for breakfast. I know it’s rather scandalous, but I don’t suppose the staff will talk much if I provide adequate compensation. Or perhaps that will make them talk more.” A dangerous grin flirted with his lips. “When you get to be my age, you no longer care about such matters. Come inside and eat with me.”

Buffy slowly raised her head, her incredulous eyes swallowing him whole. Had he not heard what she’d just confessed? Had he not heard her say that she was leaving?

“Mr. de Winter, I—”

“I absolutely insist. And I believe I told you to stop that Mr. de Winter nonsense.” He held out his hand when she did not move, and like every time when she touched his skin, warmth flooded her veins. “Come inside and dine with me.”

Every logical nerve in her brain protested, even as her body turned soft and pliant under his kind, gentle touch. Buffy shook her head, but did little to stop him from leading her over the threshold. “Mrs. Kendall—” she began, but he cut her protest short with a quick, disinterested wave.

“Mrs. Kendall wouldn’t be so foolish to leave Monte Carlo without realizing that you aren’t with her, would she?”

Buffy bit her lip, and William laughed.

“Eat with me, love,” he said softly once his chuckles subsided. “And we will fix this.”

Fix this? There wasn’t anything to fix. Nevertheless, she didn’t have it within her to further her protest. Against her better judgment, she found herself following him into the forbidden area of his personal space. She realized belatedly that he was in a state of scandalous undress—the sort of undress she’d only seen in the opposite sex when Mrs. Kendall took her to places that provided a pool. He wasn’t entirely nude waist-up, but for the way his dress-shirt hung loosely off his shoulders, unbuttoned, he might as well have been.

A glance at that forbidden flesh, now that her mind was wandering out of its haze, made her cheeks hot. William lived in this room. The walls had seen him in much less.

“I have toast,” he announced, leading her to the veranda. “And coffee.”

“Oh.”

It was the only thing she could say. Her mind was still spinning.

“Not as nice as the dining room, but I hadn’t anticipated seeing you until later this afternoon.”

But he wasn’t supposed to see her that afternoon. By that afternoon, she would be gone. And by the next day, he wouldn’t remember her at all. The thought was enough to stir the commonsense that he’d banished so effortlessly, and some smidgeon of self-respect began to struggle. “Mr. de Winter, I really should be going. I only came to return your book and thank you for—”

“The book is yours, Buffy. Certainly you’re not unfamiliar with the concept of gift-giving.”

Her mind flashed to the inscription. Spike—from Drusilla. That book did not belong to her. Drusilla had given it to him. She had given it to William, whom she called Spike, for whatever reason. It was private. It was personal. It wasn’t something that one simply gave away. “I couldn’t possibly—”

“I absolutely insist.” William pulled out the chair for her and waited patiently until she obliged. Just as quickly, he assumed the seat across from her and settled his napkin into his lap. “Toast?”

In spite of herself, Buffy offered a numb nod.

“Coffee?”

Again, she nodded.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Cream, please.” She inhaled sharply and shifted in her seat. “Mister—” He arched a brow and her entire body rattled. “I mean, William…William, I really must be going. I only came to thank you for being so kind to me, and to tell you goodbye. I really shouldn’t keep Mrs. Kendall waiting. She—”

“Mrs. Kendall sprang this on you rather abruptly, I gather.”

Buffy nodded quickly. “Oh, yes. I had no idea she had even given thought to leaving Monte Carlo until an hour ago.”

“An hour,” William repeated.

“Yes.”

“And it took you an hour to come and see me.”

The way he spoke made the whole of her shrivel. At once, she felt all of ten years old; that she was being reprimanded by someone that demanded her obedience and loyalty. Only that wasn’t right. That wasn’t right at all. Mrs. Kendall was the one that paid her for her companionship. Mrs. Kendall was the one that kept her clothed, fed, and employed. Mrs. Kendall was the one she belonged with. And Mrs. Kendall thought she was in her room, and would be intensely angry when she returned and found that she had wandered off.

“I—uhh, William.” Her cheeks warmed as his name rolled off her lips. It was so improper, so unbidden. And somehow knowing that she was behaving as she shouldn’t made her enjoy it all the more. No matter how vehemently William insisted that she forgo formalities, she knew that she should adhere to society’s laws of class and division. But she didn’t. Instead, she did as he asked and addressed him by his Christian moniker, and it made her feel strangely complete. “William,” she said again. The taste of his name in her mouth would never dull. “I…I hardly know…I only knew that I had to return the book.” Only that wasn’t quite right, and she knew that he knew it for the intense way his eyes drilled into hers. “I knew…I only knew that I had to see you again and say goodbye.”

There was a short, meaningful pause. “Hmmm. Yes.” William nodded and indulged in an unhurried sip of his coffee. “I would have been most cross if you had simply wandered off without saying goodbye.”

Buffy couldn’t tell if he was teasing her or not. She felt that he was. “I’m sorry, I just—”

“Do you enjoy working for Mrs. Kendall?”

He knew the answer to that. They had discussed it at length several days ago. How much she disliked her job; how knowing that her girlhood dreams and wishes—even acknowledging how silly and frivolous as they had been—would never see fruition had encased her in sorrow. How she spent time daydreaming of what she would do as she blossomed further into adulthood, knowing all the while that her class would never elevate.

“No, Mr. de…William. No, I do not. However, I am in her care and she is the one—”

“You are paid to be her companion.”

“Yes.”

“Your duties are to care for her. To be with her in the place of actual friends or acquaintances.” The way he spoke told her plainly that he expected no answer. He was merely reciting things that he already knew to be fact. “But that is not genuine companionship, is it? She uses you to feel better about herself. She is so damnably afraid of being alone that she is not above dipping into her pocketbook to find a girl to follow her around and pretend to be someone of importance to her.”

The words were true enough, but that did not stop them from hurting. Buffy forced bit back a flinch. “I don’t understand.”

“Up until I met Mrs. Kendall, I’ll admit that I did not fully understand, either.”

“Why do you say such things?”

William smiled dryly and sipped again at his coffee. “Because, love, as irritating as it is, there are certain ways that Mrs. Kendall and I are not so different.”

That wasn’t true. That was the furthest thing from the truth. William and Mrs. Kendall were as different as day and night. Mrs. Kendall was all light—too bright, at times, for Buffy to look at without wishing for a shadow to wrap herself in. Mrs. Kendall was abrasive and brash. She was the last sort of woman that Buffy ever wished to know, or associate with.

William was darkness. He was in the shadows. He was mysterious. He was everything.

He was the man she loved.

“Oh, but you are,” Buffy insisted. “You are different.”

“In most ways, yes. Not in this.”

She frowned and shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Mrs. Kendall is lonely. She seeks companionship.” He shrugged one shoulder lazily and offered her a small, almost apologetic smile. “We are not so different, see. It is simply misfortunate…or, as I see it, very fortunate that you were the girl she selected to accompany her.” He paused and his smile widened. “I offer you a choice, Buffy.”

“A choice.”

“Yes. If you like, you may leave with Mrs. Kendall. Return to her side and rely on the charity of her pocketbook until she tires of you. Or…” William raised the cerulean mug to his perfect lips again, his mouth tugging into an even wider, however mystifying grin. “You may come home with me.”

Her heart leapt into her throat. There was no way that she hadn’t heard him wrong. Her fears had transformed suddenly into a delusion. She didn’t want to leave him, thus her mind was trying to fool her. William didn’t want her. Not as a companion. Not as a woman. Not as anything. And any second, the dream-world she had entered would vanish and she would find herself back inside reality. William would smile and touch her hand, say that he would always remember her, even if he never would. And then she would go downstairs and meet Mrs. Kendall’s disapproving glare. She would apologize and accept whatever reprimands that her employer leveled at her, and then she would move on. She would leave Monte Carlo and her heart behind.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said, shaking her head. “I…I couldn’t have heard you properly. I don’t—”

“It’s very simple,” William replied, though his voice was in no way condescending. Rather, he was nodding gently and soothing her nerves with soft, reassuring smiles. “You may go with Mrs. Kendall, or you may come with me. You may come with me to Manderley.”

“Mr. de Winter—”

“William.”

She flushed. “William, I really must…you can’t require my services. Mrs. Kendall needs a paid companion because she has…really, no one likes her very much. But you…people like you. You don’t need to resort to—”

The sudden impact of his rich laugh shook her to the bone. It made the walls quiver. And once again, she felt very young and very foolish.

“William?”

“You adorable little fool,” he drawled, shaking his head. “I’m not asking you to be my paid companion. Buffy, I’m asking you to marry me.”

There was a grandfather-clock in William’s room unlike any clock that Buffy had ever seen. Not that she made a habit of studying clocks, but she found this particular model fascinating, if not a pleasant distraction from the loud thundering in her chest. It was intricately hand-carved and touched with whitewash finish. There were worn areas around corners where it had been bumped or neglected, but one would only notice its faults if determined to find them. The long sides were aligned with carvings of flowers, and at the head were two childlike angels that met on either side of a rose bush. The decoration was just lovely. She wished for a blind second that she had her sketchbook with her, so that she could at least attempt to document its beauty for her memory.

Perhaps the reason she’d noticed the clock was due to its ticking being perfectly in tune with the stormy palpitations of her frantic, disbelieving heart. She kept waiting for the words to vanish—for something to happen that would tell her definitively that she’d heard wrong. That William had not asked what she’d heard him ask.

“It was made in Italy,” William said pleasantly, nodding to the clock.

“It’s lovely,” Buffy agreed. There wasn’t an inch of her that wasn’t numb.

“You have a special interest in clocks?”

Had he forgotten that he’d asked her to marry him? Had she truly heard him wrong? She chilled then and shivered, her eyes falling to her coffee. She didn’t like coffee all that much. It was very much an American drink, and she’d never truly understood the appeal. Mrs. Kendall possessed a vehement dislike of coffee. She would be absolutely horrified when she learned that Buffy had shared coffee with William that morning.

“I don’t, no.”

“You don’t know?” he replied, arching a brow. “Or no, you don’t.”

“Mister—”

“By the grace of God, Buffy, if you call me Mr. de Winter one more time, I’m going to take a switch to you.” His eyes were set with amusement, which served both to ease and hurt in the same beat. Was he making fun of her? He hadn’t yet—not in the time she’d known him. And he’d been rather affronted at every assumption that she’d voiced in that vein. “Besides…you shouldn’t speak so formally with the man you’re going to marry.”

There were those words again. Her eyes went wide.

Marry William de Winter.

“William,” she forced out, catching herself before she slipped into formalities again, blushing furiously. “It’s not necessary to propose marriage if you’re in need of…whatever work there is that I can do for you.”

“I’m quite aware of that.”

“Then you understand how imprudent it would be to—”

William waved a hand dismissively, sipping at his coffee. Then, as though he’d crept inside her mind, he frowned and set the cup on the table. “I don’t suppose I’ll ever understand why the Yanks are so enamored with that drink,” he observed, shaking his head. “As for prudence, Ms. Summers, am I to understand that you’re concerned about my reputation?”

“I’m not in your world, William.” It was important that he understood that. That he grasped just how far apart they truly were. He had elegance and mystery about him. Even sitting, as he was, immodestly attired, he still exuded the presence of one of great fortune and importance. Whereas Buffy, in her blandly simple gray dress, represented everything that men like William de Winter typically scoffed at. Men like William de Winter did not propose marriage. Not to paid companions. “I don’t…”

“My world?” he repeated, arching one cool brow with interest. “And what, daresay, is my world?”

Buffy frowned, her heart leaping into her throat. The last thing she’d wanted was to anger him. But certainly, a man as intelligent and worldly as Mr. William de Winter couldn’t be blind to the reality of their situation. She was merely a girl. A child, really. Perhaps they were only separated by a decade; it might as well have been a millennia. William was everything she wasn’t. He was wealthy, educated, and devilishly handsome. He’d already lived. He’d lived and loved, and the love of his life had died. He might be fond of her, but there was little more besides that to snag his interest.

Unless she’d misjudged him. Buffy blinked dumbly, her eyes settling on her half-sipped coffee. Was it possible that she’d misjudged him?

Was it possible that he loved her as desperately as she loved him?

No. Impossible. It was a romantic’s notion. An idle fantasy.

As was the hope that he’d ever ask her to marry him.

“Buffy, it is rude to remain silent when one has asked you a question,” William said, his voice tempered. “Would you like a piece of toast?”

“Yes, please.”

He obliged her in his gentlemanly fashion, sliding a single plate doctored with a tanned slice of bread to her side of the table. “What did you mean when you said you are not in my world?” he asked.

“Exactly that. I’m not in your world. The women in your world wear black silk.” Because they could afford it. Because they thought it made them appealing. Mrs. Kendall, for example, was a woman in William’s world. And she’d shown nothing but raw, naked interest in him since they arrived at Monte Carlo. Even though Mrs. Kendall had several years to the advantage on William, she remained a prime example of the sort of woman that William would want. Someone of stature and importance. Someone of wealth and class. Someone who wasn’t so poor that she had to rely on the borrowed kindness of a woman who, at the end of the day, didn’t care for her at all. “The women in your world wear black silk,” she repeated after a moment’s silence. “And I have nothing.”

William’s eyes darkened. “I would not have you in black silk,” he replied, a raw edge to his voice. “I would not have you in any way other than how you are right now.”

She doubted that was true. If he could, William would move the heavens and the earth to have her as Drusilla was. To replace her plain likeness with the winning smile of his late wife. She did not blame him, nor did she feel sorry for herself. It was simply a truth. A piece of silver knowledge that kept her grounded. That reminded her who she was.

And more importantly, who she was not.

“If you do not come to Manderley with me,” William said softly when she did not reply. “What will you do?”

Buffy was silent for a long minute. The words come to Manderley with me sent shivers down her spine. He spoke as though it was actually an option. Something he wanted. Something genuine.

Again, she wondered if it was possible that he loved her, after all. Ridiculous as it was.

“I will go with Mrs. Kendall.”

“And when Mrs. Kendall tires of you?”

There was harshness in his voice that she didn’t care for, but it was a fair enough question. Certainly, Mrs. Kendall wouldn’t spend the rest of her days carting her around as though there was actually any familial obligation between them. No, some morning, Buffy would awake and find—very much as she had today—that the world she knew was changing again. That everything she’d known was no longer reliable.

“There will be other Mrs. Kendalls,” she replied.

And that was it. The story of her life. Buffy Summers, orphaned, poor, and passed from one employer to the other. Given wages to act the part of a companion so that the wealthy didn’t have to be so lonely.

“I want you to marry me, Buffy. I don’t know how to make this clearer for you.” William sighed and wiped his mouth with his cloth napkin, rising dutifully to his feet. “We can be married swiftly. Very quickly. Here in Monte Carlo. And I will take you to Florence for our honeymoon. All the fine dining and shopping that a young woman could ask for.”

The idea was, at last, beginning to sink in. This was real. This was a real possibility. William de Winter was actually asking her to marry him. “Quickly?”

“Yes. Here. We can have the magistrate do it for us.”

“No church?” Buffy replied, her throat dry and her head light. “No choir? No flowers? No music?”

The look on William’s face was grim. “No. No, I had one of those weddings before.”

She inhaled sharply but didn’t reply. If she was to seriously consider the proposal, the last thing she needed was to be reminded, yet again, of Drusilla. There were enough reminders of her as it was. Every time she met William’s eyes, she found herself drowning in a helpless sea of loss and heartache. If she was going to be his wife, she needed to establish her own footing.

And yet, the idea was simply too overwhelming to grasp. William wanted to marry her, and he wanted it done in a courtroom. Gone were her girlish fantasies of white veils and rose petals. Of smiling faces and music composed by the gods themselves. She’d known for a long time, of course, that she would never be the sort of woman to earn such a celebration, but the desire remained nonetheless.

“I’m not asking you properly,” William said a second later, his eyes going wide as though reading her thoughts. “You want white lace and music. I suppose I should have taken you to some remote hillside, dropped to one knee, and then made love to you in a rose garden. I’m sorry, love, but this is all I can do in the time allotted.”

Buffy’s cheeks reddened. “William—”

He smiled and reclaimed his seat. “Good girl.”

“You really want to marry me?”

For a fleeting instant, she thought he was going to reprimand her for making him repeat it. Or worse, he was going to laugh at her and let her know, in no uncertain terms, what a fool she was and what a good game he’d made of it. But William did neither. Instead, he offered a solemn nod and said, “I do,” while taking a healthy bite out of his toast.

“You want me to be Mrs. de Winter?”

The implication alone just sounded foreign and wrong. She wasn’t Mrs. de Winter. She could never be Mrs. de Winter. Mrs. de Winter was dead.

But William did not contradict her. He nodded again. “I do.”

“Oh.”

“Buffy?”

“Marry you.”

William arched one of his perfect brows again and cocked his head. “Are you accepting my proposal, or simply restating what we’ve been discussing for the past twenty minutes?”

Accept.

If she did not accept, she would never see him again. And this was more than seeing him again. This was her deepest desire, her deepest yearning, come to life. William de Winter wanted her to be his wife.

He made a sound of mild amusement, which jarred her again from her musings. “I admit, love, I hadn’t expected you to make such hard work out of my proposal. I’d rather thought you were in love with me.”

Buffy’s heart thundered. “Oh, but I am!” The words were out before she could stop them. “I do love you, William. Very much.”

She waited for him to return her sentiments. After all, he’d been the one to mention love. That had to mean something, didn’t it? William would not toss love into the conversation without feeling it. He simply wasn’t that sort of man. Any second now, he would leap to his feet, profess how much she meant to him, and seal their betrothal with a kiss that would rewrite the history on kisses.

But he did none of those things. Instead, he smiled a half-smile and nodded again. “And you will marry me.”

It wasn’t a question. He already knew the answer. “Yes.”

A small smile broke across William’s handsome face. “Thank you,” he said, and it struck her as immeasurably odd that he would be thanking her for anything. However, before she could muse on the notion that he owed her gratitude when he was the one marrying her, he spoke again. “Don’t worry with Mrs. Kendall. After breakfast, I will dress and we will go speak with her together. You don’t need to be in the room, if you wish. I will take care of everything.”

Buffy worried a lip between her teeth, the image of Mrs. Kendall’s astonished, betrayed face floating upward. She suddenly felt ill. “I would much prefer that,” she agreed readily. “Yes, please.”

It occurred to her only seconds after she agreed that he deal with Mrs. Kendall that she was in no way performing the role of a woman who was about to be married. There was no loyalty to keep her tied to Mrs. Kendall. There was nothing at all. Why she should fear speaking with her employer was beyond her.

However, if William thought ill of her for so readily accepting his method of escape, he didn’t say a word. Instead, he merely smiled and rose slowly to his feet. “Well, then,” he said softly, and there was an air of tenderness in his eyes that she had never seen before. Perhaps she was imagining it. Perhaps. “If you’ll wait for a second, love, I’ll make myself presentable. Then we’ll face the old crone together.”

Together. She and William were going to be together.

She was going to be Mrs. de Winter.

She was going to live at Manderley.

And any second, she was certain she was going to wake up.

*~*~*

Just as he promised, William handled the awkward situation with Mrs. Kendall. What he said, Buffy did not know. She remained in the waiting room, her hands splayed neatly over the volume of poetry that William had given her just days before. She heard muffled conversation, but no raised voices. Mrs. Kendall didn’t yell or throw things, or do any of the dramatic things that she had envisioned on the seemingly endless trek from William’s quarters to hers.

Nothing happened at all. Nothing. A few minutes later, William emerged from Mrs. Kendall’s room and his eyes immediately found hers. There was nothing calming about the way he looked at her. Rather than the smile she expected and the warmth that she craved, he merely nodded at the door and said, “It’s taken care of. Mrs. Kendall would like a few words with you.”

Buffy’s heart leapt into her throat. “She would?”

William smiled gently at hearing the tension in her voice, and a part of her relaxed. A very small part. “It’s fine, love,” he said. “Mrs. Kendall has no claim on you. She is not blood, nor is she truly a friend. If anything, she’s a little bitter that you’re the one leaving with me…a right she clearly believes is hers alone.”

She offered a weak smile at that. “I will see her, then.”

“Should I have a maid pack your things for you?”

Buffy flustered. Just a little while ago, she had made such a fuss about someone else touching her things. It was quite uncharacteristic of her. After all, Mrs. Kendall had carted her around the country for a little over a year now, and not once had she cared at all about whether or not her belongings were packed by her hands or someone else’s. She knew, logically, that she had only insisted to such a point to stall for time. She’d needed to see William before she left. And now she was leaving with William, because they were getting married.

Because she was going to be Mrs. de Winter.

How odd that Mrs. Kendall’s last impression of her would be their quarrel over how to pack her things.

“I packed earlier,” Buffy replied, rising to her feet and placing the book aside. “But you might have her rearrange some things for me. I…I sort of threw everything in my suitcase in my hurry to see you. I’m sure it’s a mess.”

William’s smile grew, and before she knew what was happening, he had moved forward and brushed a tender kiss across her brow. It wasn’t the sort of kiss she expected a husband would give her, but the feel of his lips against her skin made her shiver with a rush of unanticipated happiness. “Deep breaths,” he whispered. “All will be well.”

Then he was gone. The strong comfort he offered moved aside and she was left facing an open doorway. Inside, on a long sofa, was Mrs. Kendall, and she looked ready to strangle anything that moved.

It did not surprise her, but Buffy felt a rush of trepidation nonetheless.

“Well, well, well,” Mrs. Kendall drawled, lighting a cigarette. She leaned carelessly against the pillows at the arm of the chaise. The look in her eyes was almost threatening. “It appears that I’ve underestimated you.”

Buffy wet her lips and did not reply.

“Game, set, match to you, huh, honey?”

“Mrs. Kendall—”

The old woman frowned and waved dismissively. “I’m not going to be difficult. I’m not going to scream and cry unfair, though now I know where you snuck off to while I was ill, right?” An unkind smile crossed her lips. “I do wish you luck, Buffy, though I fear you’re making a horrible mistake.”

Logically, Buffy knew that Mrs. Kendall was speaking out of jealous disappointment, but the words couldn’t help but strike the intended barb with skilled perfection. There was a sense of horrible apprehension surrounding the events that had unfolded over the past hour. While she very much wanted to marry William, she knew that she was leaving a world where she was comfortable. Where she knew exactly where she belonged. Having been orphaned at such a young age hadn’t privileged Buffy in having too many close relations, but she knew what to expect from Mrs. Kendall. She didn’t know what to expect from William, or Manderley. All she knew was that she loved him.

And that was all that mattered. She loved him.

“He likes you,” Mrs. Kendall continued, tapping her cigarette so that flecks of dust scattered along the carpet. “No doubt about that. And why wouldn’t he? He is a man, after all. And you’re a young, pretty thing. A nice little distraction from Drusilla. Did I ever tell you how she died?” She puffed on her cigarette again and shook her head. “She drowned, you see. She drowned in the bay at Manderley.”

Buffy frowned, her stomach rolling. “Stop it,” she said shortly.

If anything, her antagonistic response only egged Mrs. Kendall on. “They found her body several months later, washed along the shore miles from where her boat reportedly capsized. Poor William had to identify her. And from what I’ve heard, her body was battered and broken, and thoroughly naked.”

Bile rose in her throat. Buffy waved a hand and shook her head, a desperate, pleading note striking her voice. “Please.”

“Do you think he’s in love with you?” Mrs. Kendall studied her for a minute before cooing her sympathy and tilting her head. “Oh, Buffy. How naïve you are. It has only been a few months since the poor fellow had to identify the remains of his beloved Drusilla. He’s lonely, dear, and nothing more. He doesn’t want to return to Manderley alone. Why do you think he’s spent so much time here? Why do you think he balks every time Manderley is mentioned?”

Because Drusilla was dead. Buffy worried a lip between her teeth. Because he didn’t want to go home to a hollow house and an empty bed. Because she was nothing like Drusilla, thus there was no concern for an emotional entanglement. Drusilla, undoubtedly, had been the sort of woman to wear black lace. She’d been everything that Buffy was not. Brazen, glamorous, confident, beautiful, and a thousand other things.

“Do you really think you’re up to running Manderley?” Mrs. Kendall asked. “You’re just a child.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

“And that darkness. Certainly, with all the time you’ve spent with him, you’ve seen the darkness in his eyes. How will you feel when you have that darkness in your bed?”

“Mrs. Kendall!” The thought of what would happen in bed with William de Winter was enough to make her melt into the floorboards. “Please!”

“I simply feel it is my obligation to tell you that you are making a terrible mistake, Buffy.”

Mistake.

Mrs. Kendall nodded, as though needing to punctuate her point. “A mistake that you will bitterly regret.”

Buffy just sat there and stared.

But I’m going to be Mrs. de Winter.

And that was what this was about. In the end, that was exactly what this was about. Buffy Summers, plain and awkward, was marrying the infamously wealthy Mr. William de Winter, and every woman in the country was going to hate her for it.

But she was the one marrying William. She was the one that he’d asked. She was the one.

And maybe he didn’t love her now. Maybe he never would. But she loved him enough for both of them, and that would be enough. She had nothing else. Nothing but love for William, and soon, a ring on her finger.

Her love for him would be enough.

It had to be.

A/N: I have been advised to warn my readers that this chapter is angst-heavy. Having said that, I assume most of my readers know my feelings on Spuffy by now, hopefully enough to trust me.

Tempesta di Amore won an award at Love’s Last Glimpse for Best Fantasy. Thank you SO MUCH to whoever nominated me. I’ve never, ever written a fantasy before…so this…well, it stunned the hell out of me. Thank you guys so much!

Chapter Six

Once, when she was very young, Buffy shared a bed with a girl that might have been her cousin. It was in that hazy period following the death of her father—the death that had rendered her an orphan—while the house that had been theirs was overrun with people who claimed that they were family. People she’d never met before; people she hadn’t seen since the disbursement of what little wealth her family had possessed. In the rush of those cold, lonely days, Buffy had shared a bed at least once. She hadn’t liked it. The girl had shoved at her, kicked at her, and hogged the blankets.

It was an isolated memory. It was something she hadn’t bothered remembering until now.

She was in bed, naked, with a man. She was in bed, naked, with William de Winter.

And it was all right, because she was his wife. She was Mrs. Elizabeth de Winter. She wore a wedding band on her finger.

It was all right because she was the one who loved him.

Buffy honestly didn’t know what she thought would happen when she lost her virginity. Truth be told, she hadn’t given the wedding night much consideration until the wedding itself was over. Until the magistrate pronounced her the wife of William de Winter, and the ceremony came to an end.

No one had ever told her about lovemaking, and Buffy honestly didn’t know when she’d learned the mechanics. It was before she’d met Mrs. Kendall; perhaps in a book she shouldn’t have looked in, or during a conversation with a girl she’d known at the agency. Or perhaps every young woman eventually reached the point where they simply knew how to make love. It was intrinsic. After all, no one had been there to explain it to Eve; she’d figured it out all on her own.

She felt different. Changed. She felt that their marriage bed had truly transformed her from awkward, meek Elizabeth ‘Buffy’ Summers into Mrs. Elizabeth ‘Buffy’ de Winter, and perhaps that was hoping too much. Any second, she expected her eyes would open for real and she would find herself in a room that wasn’t hers, with a man who didn’t know her.

The past few days had been a stressful, surreal blur. And now she was in uncharted waters. Whatever shell of a life that she’d known before had been completely eradicated.

How did I ever come to be here?

William’s back was to her. She was no longer encased in his warmth. No, his warmth had slipped away, leaving her cold and divided on her side of the bed. She wanted to touch him but didn’t know if she should—if he would react adversely to feeling her hands on him uninvited.

She was his wife, though. Wives touched their husbands.

The ache between her thighs was foreign, and Buffy had yet to decide if she liked it. The intrusion of him into her body had both ached and split her apart with bliss beyond bliss. She’d never thought it possible to be so connected to someone—even when she’d haphazardly fantasized what lovemaking might feel like. It was always something detached and distant—something that would always happen to other people, and never to her.

Buffy didn’t know what she’d thought would happen. Perhaps she’d daydreamed that William would open up to her as he never had in Monte Carlo. Perhaps she’d hoped that he would fall to his knees and swear his undying love for her. Perhaps she’d imagined replacing Drusilla as the woman who owned his heart. All aspirations were foolish; Buffy knew this now. But she had him. She shared his bed now—no one else.

A slice of cold stabbed at her, and she clutched the comforter tighter against her chest. At least, she hoped no one else. It wasn’t an uncommon practice for men and even women to keep lovers, as Mrs. Kendall had warned her. Buffy’s stomach twisted and she shivered hard. No, William wouldn’t betray her. He wasn’t the sort of man to break a vow. And even so, if it was his intention to be unfaithful, why bother marrying her in the first place? He was a widower, and society had a way of turning a blind eye and keeping gossip behind closed doors, rather than out in the open. Mrs. Kendall had taught her that there was no family of wealth or importance that did not come without its share of scandal.

Icy fingers of dread were slowly closing around her heart.

She’d leapt into this so quickly and with such enthusiasm. And yet, despite her love for William, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she was alone.

Everything had been so…pleasant. Not romantic. Not passionate. Just pleasant. They’d gotten married in an ordinary courtroom. She’d worn an unremarkable dress and held an unremarkable bouquet of equally unremarkable flowers. The kiss that William had brushed across her lips had singed her nerves with heat, but it was far from the sort of kisses that she saw on movie-picture shows, or read about in books. Beyond the warmth of his mouth against hers—and the sparks that had blazed across her skin—it was nothing but a kiss. A simple kiss. A kiss that Buffy was sure meant more to her than it ever could to him.

He’d treated her to whatever she liked. He bought her clothes, jewelry, hats—anything that she commented on, or admired for any length of time. He showered her with gifts, and while her girlish heart had been delighted, there was a part of her that couldn’t shake the feeling that she was just a child playing dress-up. That William was buying her whatever she wanted, dressing her in clothes that quite obviously could never whollybelong to her—in some grand effort to make her more than she was.

He’d treated her to better dining than she’d hoped to enjoy. They had eaten, and then he took her to an opera. The distance between them didn’t improve, but Buffy forced her thoughts away. After all, she was the woman on his arm. She was the one sitting beside him at Il ritorno d'Ulisse in patria.She was the one with him—distance be damned.

Buffy had never considered music a living thing. She loved listening to it, and had very much enjoyed the piano lessons she’d had as a child. However, until tonight, until she’d sat in that opera house, she’d never known that music could live.

William had handed her a handkerchief when she wasn’t looking. Her eyes had fallen to the royal embroidery in the corner. Purple, elegantly hand stitched letters. WdW.

William de Winter.

“I’m glad you enjoyed the opera,” he told her later.

“Enjoyed?” she replied, her voice still thick with tears, her eyes damp with awe. “I’ve never heard anything so lovely in my whole life.”

William had chuckled at that and made some comment about how young she was and how she would constantly be discovering things that she’d never heard or seen or experienced in her whole life.Furthermore, if she allowed herself to be surprised each time, she’d die young of a heart-attack.

“Do not laugh at me for my age,” she retorted, indignant.

He’d lifted her hand to his mouth, caressing the back with his lips. “My dear,” he replied, his voice both heavy and light at the same time in a way that boggled her young mind. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

It wasn’t until they’d arrived at their room that night that Buffy had remembered what was supposed to happen between men and women on their wedding night. William hadn’t acted like a man who wanted to make love all day, though fairly, she didn’t know what a man who wanted to make love acted like. And he was old enough to have experienced pleasures of the flesh time and time again. She didn’t doubt that each time he’d made love with Drusilla that the earth, to him, at least, had moved. That every time he’d touched his beloved wife, he’d inspired the heavens to sing.

Thus, engaging in carnal relations with his new, inexperienced wife likely meant little to him. But it was the first time that Buffy would ever be touched by a man, and it meant the world to her.

She’d sat, awkward and horribly self-aware, on the bed as William moved around their grandiose hotel room. He went about disrobing as though she wasn’t there. As though he had no wife at all. As though his life hadn’t changed. If he sensed her displacement or nervousness, he didn’t comment, or even react. It wasn’t until his fingers touched the first button of his dress-shirt that he turned his gaze to her.

What she saw in the ocean of his eyes was frightening and endless.

“This is new for you, isn’t it?” he asked, perplexing her with his bluntness.

Buffy blinked. “Yes,” she replied slowly, her heart in her throat. “I…forgive me, I have never…”

A small smile graced his lips. “Sweetling, your innocence requires no forgiveness.”

It was impossible for Buffy to tell if he was laughing at her. His tone bewildered her entirely. It wasn’t a heartfelt confession. He hadn’t dropped to his knees and bathed her skin in kisses. He hadn’t asked that she remove her dress. He hadn’t done anything.

“You really are pretty,” he said then, surprising her even more. But even then, his voice lacked the passion she craved.

Flowers were pretty.Landscapes were pretty.And while Buffy had never truly aspired to be anything more than plain, she’d always dreamed that the man she’d marry—whether in truth or in her fantasies—would find her utterly beautiful.

William thought she was pretty.It was better than nothing.

“Do you not want to do this?” he asked the next second, making her eyes go wide.

“What?”

“If you don’t want to…I don’t want to make you do anything that you don’t wish to do.” Unceremoniously, he dropped to his knees before her so that her eyes had nowhere to hide. He took her hands in his, caressing her knuckles with his soft lips in a way that made her insides flutter. “This has all happened so fast. Your life has changed so fast. Don’t think that I don’t know that. When you come to my bed, I want your mind with me.”

The words escaped her lips before she could help them, and the flinch that rolled down her spine would remain with her for the rest of her days. “I want to please you.”

William’s mouth tugged a grin that he didn’t allow to spread to his face. “You please me, love,” he replied, surprising her the next second when he brushed a kiss across her chin. “You have done more for me than you can ever know. And I know this has been overwhelming for you.”

Overwhelming was an understatement.

“Are you having regrets?” Buffy asked. “Do you wish that you hadn’t married me?”

“No.”

“Oh.”

For whatever reason, that wasn’t the answer she’d expected. Then again, they had only been married for a few hours. Perhaps it was too soon for regrets.

“Are you having regrets?” William replied in kind, his brows hitting his hairline. “Your life has changed far more than mine has.”

“If I were not with you, I would be with Mrs. Kendall.”

He chuckled, drumming his long fingers against her collarbone. An unfamiliar emotion crossed his face, and his eyes dropped, appraising her in a way that she’d never been appraised. Buffy shifted and inhaled deeply, feeling at once entirely self-conscious.

“Buffy, look at me.”

She hadn’t realized that she was staring at the hemline of her dress until he issued the request. “William?”

A small smile flitted across his lips. “Good girl.”

“What?”

“You called me William.”

Her cheeks burned. “Well…we’re married now,” she said, her voice cracking as though she expected him to refute a fact. As though she expected him to tell her that, no, of course they weren’t married. The entire day had been an elaborate hoax, and shame on her for falling for a girlish dream so readily. So willingly.She was such a laugh. Such a little amusement, and while he would never dream of truly marrying her, he did hope to keep her around just for the sake of entertainment.

Of course, such fears were preposterous, but that knowledge didn’t make them any less present.

William just smiled. “We are married,” he said softly. “Buffy, if you don’t want—”

“I do.”

She was grateful when he didn’t make things worse for her by forcing her to elaborate. “You’re sure?”

Buffy swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes.”

His hands dropped to her shoulders. “You’re trembling,” he said, but it wasn’t an admonition. “It will hurt the first time.”

“It will?” The idea of pain set her body aflame with an entirely different sort of anxiety. Romance novels had certainly never mentioned pain. Nor had Mrs. Kendall. Then again, Buffy reflected with an inner snicker, the old woman likely couldn’t remember a time before she’d lost her virginity. “How badly?”

William sighed and cast a hand through his chocolate-brown locks. “I’m not sure, love,” he replied honestly, if not repentantly. “Men don’t…it doesn’t hurt for us the first time.”

Her nose wrinkled. “Well, that hardly seems fair.”

“Fair or not, that’s the way it is.”

“You don’t know how badly it will hurt?”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry. All I can offer is…I will be gentle with you. I’ll go as slowly as you like. If it hurts too much, tell me, and we’ll stop.”

Something in his eyes told her that stopping would be easier said than done, but that could have