“No.”
“Caleb,” said Emma anxiously, reaching out to touch his arm, unable to stand the half wild, hunted look in his eyes. “It’s—”
“I said no,” he growled, violently shaking her off and stalking away.
Stunned, she watched him bow to Lord and Lady Castlereagh, then leave the ballroom.
What had they done?
He had tried everything to get to sleep. Two decanters of brandy, counting lines on the patterned quilt, reading his military notebook, but nothing worked. Even Frisky had withdrawn his royal favor, choosing to sleep on an enormous velvet cushion at the foot of Emma’s bed.
Bad enough knowing he was safe and well in England while his under-manned, under-supplied regiment prepared for what could well be the battle of their lives without him. Worse still that his deliberately reckless, death-wishing younger brother would be in the thick of it.
But Lucy’s ambush about dancing…
Caleb rubbed a shaking hand across his face as his gut roiled. How ridiculous that after ten years an event could still have such power over him.
Yet they were all wrong about one thing. He didn’t hate dancing.
Only dancing masters.
Men who sweet talked their way into wealthy houses, built trust, then preyed on vulnerable, naive lads. From the moment the Italian, for that was all he would ever call the bastard, arrived, his honeyed words and light touches made him wary. When they dropped deliberately lower and became caresses, he had shoved the man away, threatened to report him and thought the matter done.
Until the evening he found his little brother curled in a ball, clothing askew and biting his fist to muffle harsh sobs. His parents called the Watch and had the criminal chained and taken away in the dead of night, but it was too late. He had failed utterly to protect his brother, and Adam had never forgiven him.
“Bloody hell,” Caleb muttered, choking down the bile in his throat and swinging his legs over the side of the daybed. He had a valid reason for never dancing. Yet by refusing, he continued to deny Emma a simple pleasure she still seemed to truly want from him.
Taking several deep breaths, he swiftly dressed in trousers and shirt, then padded barefoot silently past his sleeping wife and out into the hallway. Stealing a single candlestick to light his way, he continued downstairs to the servant’s wing and knocked softly on his valet’s door.
There was a muffled curse, heavy thud, another curse, and the door swung open to reveal the world’s most bedraggled, nightshirt-wearing Scot.
“Major?” said McGregor, rubbing bleary eyes. “Is something amiss?”
“Mac. I know it’s an ungodly hour, but I have a favor to ask. It’s an…unusual one.”
His valet’s gray eyes sharpened instantly, and he dashed back into his room and yanked on a pair of trousers. “Where is the body? How many days ago? Just give me a minute—”
“Damnation, man, I haven’t killed anyone. But I need you to come with me now.”
“All right. It’s a delicate spying mission, then?” Mac finished hopefully as they crossed the foyer to the east wing of the Montclair townhouse. “Or perhaps you’re being haunted by the ghost of old King Henry and need me to perform a ritualistic spirit banishment?”
Caleb pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m not even going to ask what that might involve.”
“Spirit banishments are a McGregor family specialty. It’s imperative to follow the old ways and use a great deal of whisky, three servings of haggis, fire, a bale of wool and a virgin’s silk stocking.”
Good God.
“Unfortunately not a banishment. Something far more complex and doomed to failure,” he said shortly as he pushed open the door to a room he hadn’t entered in a decade. “I want you…”
“Sir?”
He gritted his teeth as hideous memories clouted him, almost enough to forget how icy cold the polished wood floor was under his bare feet. “I want you to teach me to dance.”
For one blessed second, his verbose valet stood speechless. Then the older man nodded solemnly.
“Aye. Tis a big step. Well done.”
Caleb froze in the process of lighting a few extra candles with his own. “What are you talking about?”
His valet’s suspiciously bright gaze didn’t waver. “Many years ago in Spain, there was an occasion you actually managed to out-drink me. I told you of my rough upbringing in the Edinburgh slums, and you…you mentioned a certain Italian that I would gut and castrate with a rusty fishhook should we ever meet.”
Agony, shame, gratitude, even some sort of black humor blasted through him, and he rubbed his face to compose himself. “You’d need to get in line. I don’t—”
“Enough chit-chat,” said Mac briskly. “No time to waste. That fancy Midsummer Night’s Ball is the end of next week, and Mrs. Emma would love to waltz, I’m sure. Right. Let’s start with a nice bow. Lower. Lower! There. Now, take my hand, other lightly at the waist. But do refrain from whispering wicked tidbits; I’m not that sort of lady.”
Caleb’s head began to pound. “Just move.”
“Aaaaand one, two, three, one, two, three…oh dear.”
“What the devil is wrong?”
“If I might be so bold, sir, you must look at me, not your feet.”
“A little early in the lesson for such a punishment, don’t you think?”
“Well. My delicate wee heart is shattered. I may not be able to continue.”
“Christ Almighty. Fine. You’re a diamond of the first water. An incomparable. If they lived today, Helen of Troy and Aphrodite would both weep in envy.”
“That they would,” said Mac, wiggling his bushy, silver-flecked eyebrows, his huge grin adding several lines to an already grizzled face. “Right. From the start. And, one, two, three, yes look at me, two, three, don’t count, don’t count and smile, two, three, talk about the weather, two, three, turn me before I fall out the window, two, three, ouch!”
His valet grimaced and hopped in a circle, cursing fluently in English, Gaelic and Spanish.
“How adept you are at languages. Two, three,” said Caleb mildly, and received a scowl black enough to shrivel.
“Again, sir. And by the way, I’ll be wanting a pay increase plus an extra day off for grievous toe trauma.”
“I can’t help it if you move like an elderly walrus, Mac.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that. In Edinburgh, we only danced with human ladies.”
“Shut up and waltz.”
“Very well,” Mac said with a long-suffering sigh. “Ready? Aaaand, one, two, three, one, two, three…”
Two hours later, Caleb was sweating profusely, the soles of his feet were raw, and he had mastered precisely nothing. How the hell did everyone make it look so easy? And this was just one bloody dance. Most men knew several.
“Damn it,” he said furiously, dropping his hands. “This is never going to work.”
“Reckon you’ve had enough for one day,” said Mac quickly, his acute relief obvious. “Nobody learns to dance in a few hours, it takes time. But we should probably adjourn for now, the household will be up soon enough.”
“All right. And thank you.”
“Major, because of you I have seen Europe. Had adventures. Met many fine ladies and saved myself a right nice nest egg. It’s good to even the ledger a little.”
“There’s no bloody ledger,” Caleb replied irritably. “Now go get some sleep.”
With a quick bow, his valet strolled away.
After dousing the extra candles, Caleb stood for a moment in the cold, shadowed room as dark memories encroached again, almost suffocating him.
“I’m sorry, Adam,” he said hoarsely.
Then he stumbled out the door, not looking back once.
The daybed had been empty for hours.
Choking on a sob, Emma threw back the covers on her bed and ran across the faintly-lit room, fighting the near-uncontrollable urge to check under her desk, in the armoire, behind a folded screen, as if her huge, six-foot husband would magically appear.
But she was alone in the bedchamber.
Just like she’d known he would, Caleb had left her.
Again.
Her thin cotton nightgown no match for the pre-dawn chill, she staggered back to her bed and sat on the edge, wrapping her arms around her waist and rocking in grief. She’d been a fool to agree to the marriage bargain. How could there be a future for them? She loved Caleb Montclair with every fiber of her being, and always would. But nothing had changed on his part, he didn’t love her enough to stay.
Not good enough. Not good enough. Not good enough.
A low, raw wail escaped her lips as tears streamed down her face, so awful a sound that Frisky fled to the daybed. She’d guessed Caleb’s rejection would be more painful this time, but that was far too tame a word for the dark despair clawing her heart into pieces.
“Emma.”
Her head shot up. Too immersed in her misery, she hadn’t even heard the bedchamber door open and shut, but Caleb walked in, set down a single candlestick on a low side table then crossed the room to stand in front of her.
The last tiny vestige of her control shattered.
“Where have you been,” Emma cried, leaping to her feet and pounding her fists against his chest. “Do you know what I thought? Do you?”
He didn’t say a word, just remained utterly still. Accepting her punishment. Awareness slowly filtered back, and she realized he was chilled to the bone, barefoot and his face utterly weary. Empty. Like he had nothing left to fight with.
A new fear gripped her.
“Caleb,” she said quietly. “You’re freezing. Get into bed.”
His shoulders stiffened, as though he needed to brace himself for one final battle. Then he nodded and stepped away toward the daybed until she took his arm and pushed him into hers. Sliding in next to him, she tucked the quilt around them both.
Heavens he was cold.
Wincing, Emma chafed his hands and rubbed her feet over his. It didn’t seem to make much difference, and in the end she pressed her body hard against his back and thighs, wrapping her arms tightly around his chest. Even through her nightgown and his shirt, the chill of his skin peaked her nipples painfully, but she gritted her teeth and held on, one hand gently stroking his hair.
“Where have you been?”
“I couldn’t sleep,” he said eventually, rigid with tension. “Adam…God, what if something happens to him? He refused to come home. I begged him to, but he hates London and me so much he would rather be on a bloody damned battlefield trying his best to die.”
Emma stilled in shock, barely able to catch her breath. Adam hated Caleb? How could that possibly be true? No one was genuinely more devoted to his family than her husband, even if they all drove him half-demented at times.
“Why would Adam feel like that?” she asked very, very tentatively.
“My brother never should have followed me into the army,” he continued dully, as though she hadn’t spoken. “Military life isn’t for him. Adam is…gentle. Cares deeply about people. Actually, he’d be a good minister, well, if he could somehow keep his clothes clean. I tried to protect him, but sometimes he got caught – dirty boots, tardiness, that sort of thing. Usually because he’d been visiting local villages and giving them whatever ready coins or food he had. He was so reckless. Some of those people would have slit his throat for a penny, but he kept doing it, week after week.”
Hundreds of thoughts twisted and tumbled in her mind at his raw honesty, ones she could barely put words to. But a single question burned her soul, refusing to remain unasked.
“Caleb. I need to know. Did you…did you stay away because of me? Was it because I couldn’t conceive or because of your brother?”
He didn’t answer for the longest time, then slowly, so slowly, rolled to face her. His face was unbearably pale, his beautiful eyes so lifeless, she gasped.
“Even though,” he said hoarsely, “I knew how badly my absence would hurt you, I chose him. About eighteen months ago, Adam went through a particularly dark time and slashed his wrist—”
“What? No!”
“I found him. Stitched and bandaged the wound. He pleaded with me not to tell anyone, swore that it would never happen again. For a while, we were almost brothers again, but as he got better he got colder. My fear remained that left alone, he might have another turn. And succeed. I couldn’t fail him a third time.”
“Oh, Caleb,” she whispered achingly, her heart breaking at the heavy burden he’d carried alone all these years. “I know you promised him you wouldn’t, but I wish you’d confided in me somehow. To do that by yourself…”
“I had to tell Wellington before I left. Didn’t trust anyone else. He swore to watch out for Adam, but he’s a goddamned Field Marshall with tens of thousands of men under his command. All it takes is one bullet. One sword thrust. And my brother will be lost to us forever…”
“Shhh, darling” she said, cupping his face and softly kissing him as his voice cracked, anything to try and take away his pain. “You don’t have to say anymore. Not tonight. Just rest now.”
Pulling him tightly against her until his head rested on one breast, Emma idly stroked Caleb’s hair, listening to his breaths slow and even out as he fell into an exhausted sleep.
She remained wide awake.
There was far more to the story, she was sure of it. Caleb hadn’t truly answered her questions, nor elaborated on how he had supposedly failed his brother twice. Although it felt like they had crossed a bridge with his confession, she needed the whole truth.
The foundation for a new beginning was there. The fine, caring man who convinced her to marry him in a month had shown himself again in the past weeks. But for their marriage to continue, for it to be strong and true, it required nothing less.
Chapter Eight
Week Six – Midsummer night, June 23, 1815
“Victory! Victory! Bonaparte has been beaten!”
Days later, the words still thundered in his head.
Gazing around the Duke and Duchess of Milton’s lavishly decorated ballroom, Caleb inclined his head to the other men who had been in the salon that day when Major Henry Percy, one of Wellington’s eight aide-de-camps, burst in trembling and travel-exhausted with the news and several captured French eagles. The Prince Regent, even Liverpool still wore the same expression combination he’d seen in the mirror earlier today as he dressed for the annual Midsummer Night’s ball.
Intense relief, stunned elation, and devastation at the tallies of death and injuries.
No one had known which way the battle might go, not even those leading the armies. Once the French were engaged on June 16, word had been slow and patchy, relying on desperate messengers to bring news across land and sea as fast as horses and boats could carry them. Both sides suffered heavy losses, managed a few lucky escapes and fell victim to the wet, muddy conditions, but all had been decided near the town of Waterloo. It wasn’t until late in the day on June 18, Wellington and his mighty ally the Prussian General von Blucher, finally, miraculously, defeated Napoleon’s army.
But alongside the victory dispatches had been even better tidings: a sealed, personal note from Britain’s hero, short and succinct like all of Wellington’s communications.
Caleb,
Adam is well and will return to England with me.
AW
Relief had brought him to his knees. To know his brother was safe, no gift could mean more. He could share London’s unrestrained joy – the cheering crowds, deafening church bells and gushing newspaper articles proclaiming the Duke of Wellington’s victory as the greatest and most glorious since Ag
incourt.
“What are you pondering?”
Caleb blinked and smiled down at Emma, looking like a duchess herself in a gold-trimmed cream silk ball gown. Her throat was bare, and the flat, rectangular box in his jacket pocket containing an emerald and diamond necklace nearly burned a hole, but he wanted to wait for the perfect moment. The moment when she agreed to stay, to be his wife and baroness for as long as they both lived.
“The same thing I’ve been pondering the last few days. How lucky I am. How lucky England is. According to Wellington, Waterloo was the nearest run thing you ever saw.”
She nodded and tucked her hand around his arm. “Could I interest you in a glass of punch? The Milton’s concoction is particularly fine. I think Lucy wants to cease partaking by the glassful and whisk away the entire bowl.”
“Speaking of Lucy, I haven’t seen her in a while. Have she and Richard left already?”
Emma sighed heavily. “No. While you were fetching those sinful chocolate cream meringues, she informed me that Richard was a stupid, stuffy old goat and she wouldn’t marry him if he were the last man on earth, then stormed from the ballroom. Do you want to go and find her?”
“Good God, no. I made a solemn vow after last time not to interfere between those two again; one rabid flute attack is quite enough for a lifetime. Besides, a fistfight at a musicale is one thing, but a to-do in the middle of the most important ton event of the season, now a victory ball, I wouldn’t dare.”
“Wise decision,” she said, grinning impishly.
Need coursed through him at Emma’s achingly familiar smile, the overwhelming desire to know her choice once and for all. The night spent in her arms, when she’d just held him, he’d felt a measure of peace for the first time in years. But there was still so much he had to tell her.
Caleb cleared his throat.
“I did wonder though…”
“Yes?”
“If you might care to take a stroll outside. Get some air.”
Her smile faded. “Are you all right?”
Tugging on his cravat until it nearly choked him to death, he mentally scrabbled for the right words. “Yes. No. Perhaps. But we cannot talk in here, it’s too damned crowded and noisy. And if one more person elbows my ribs, I’m afraid my torso might collapse.”
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