She licked her lips and leaned toward Welles. Another coach, a private one, glistening ebony with gilded trim, pulled abreast of their damaged one. She stretched up to view the escutcheon of the owner and something about the standing, growling griffin set her startled mind galloping. The shield sparkled in the sunlight, its field awash in tiny ermine symbols, covered by a huge griffin, rampant, claws out. She’d studied heraldry as a child and she’d once known the family who owned this shield. But in the chaos, the identity escaped her.
Two men, tall and dark and in the finest tailoring, jumped down from the black carriage and ran toward theirs. Their coachman, two footmen and a tiger followed. Trees obscured her full view.
But one man she knew. Shadows of the past told her this man was…oh my. One of the Lindsey brothers. Not the oldest, Frederick Lindsey. No. Not Fred. Dead of fever. Three years ago. Not Fred’s younger brother either. Charles had died in Toulouse, in a battle as hot and ugly as Badajoz.
This was Blake! Her stomach did a thump. The youngest son of the Baron Lawton-Bridges was this large and dashing creature, not the lanky fifteen-year-old who’d left home for school in Woolwich. This man before her was no boy. But the older, bolder man who led infantry into the terror of assaults upon enemies of Britain.
Her eyes scanned him. Her heart remembered him from that last time she’d seen him, laughed with him and kissed him. He was handsome then. Irresistible in his uniform, resplendent in gold, red and white. Taller, broader in the shoulder, more agile and fit than she remembered him ever being. With wide, flat cheekbones, a Roman nose and a shock of golden brown hair that ruffled in the breeze, here before her was her childhood friend, her confidant, her correspondent. The one who no longer wished to be any of that.
It had been two years since she’d seen him after his father died. Two years since she’d bid him adieu, to send him back to his post with Wellington in Paris. Many lonely months in which she eagerly awaited the mail. She’d found nothing there from him save a note of sympathy after her parents died. Oh, she could understand he was a busy man. He was one of the few Royal Engineers, a soldier responsible for so much success of the British Army on the Continent. He’d been away for more than a decade, packed off to Woolwich and Royal Military Academy at fifteen. He’d been awarded a position because he could add a column of numbers in his head in a blink. Could look at acreage and the health of a crop and estimate the yield.
Now Mary would bet her monthly allowance that if anyone could right a coach, precariously balanced on the side of …what? A ditch? A stream? It was Blake.
“He’ll get us out,” she told her companions.
Blake Lindsey, home from the killing fields of Spain and France and Belgium, jumped up, balanced precariously on a rock or the runner and caught her gaze.
“My god,” he murmured.
The jarvey jumped up and grabbed at his shoulder. “Milord! Milord! My reins broke.”
“What?”
“Not my fault, milord. Please, tell ‘em.”
“Are you mad?” he barked to their hapless driver. He shook the man off. “Secure your horses!”
“The reins of the leaders broke!”
“Well calm them all then, leaders and wheelers. Come on, Charlton. Grab this.” Blake’s voice was a strident baritone. To hear the deeper notes sparked Mary’s memories of his younger pitch, their youthful escapades and silly, experimental, melting kisses. “Let’s get the ladies out of here.”
There was much cursing and ordering about among the coachmen and Blake’s and his friend’s servants.
When his handsome face once more appeared in the open window, she bubbled over with joy. Memories washed over her in a flood—and she blurted her childhood greeting for him. “Lawton-Bridges falling down!”
“Birdie!”
This had always been his name for her, an endearment no one else had ever used.
“God’s nightshirt! Don’t rock this carriage, my girl!”
“Happy to—Whoa!”
The carriage pitched up, then down like a ship at sea.
And then it was still.
Blake reached up and with his friend, the man of the escutcheon, Lord Charlton, stopped the roll.
Blake held her attention. “Birdie. Do not move. They free the horses.”
She put a hand to Fifi’s, who whimpered, and one to Welles, who squeezed her own in sympathy.
He glanced away to check the doings with the horses—and of a sudden he was back. Grinning, he seemed a force of nature, huge and in command, his brown hair burnished golden in the rays of the sun. “Good to see you, Birdie! But not here. Not like this! And what in hell are you doing in a public coach?”
“Turning arse over tea kettle,” she replied.
“Still telling a story much too baldly, I see,” he said, rueful.
A man shouted at him.
“Ah, horses secured. Let’s get you out of there, little finch!”
Chapter 3
Within minutes, she was tucked into Blake Lindsey’s embrace, carried to his coach like a prize of war. Being saved, dare she say treasured, gratified her as little else had in years. Beneath her hands, she felt his strength. Two years ago, she’d danced with him in London. But he had not held her in his arms like this since the day she’d fallen in the woods near home. His embrace left her giddy and appreciative of his strength.
He deposited her on the supple black leather seat of Charlton’s travel coach. All around them was frantic activity. The coachmen and his footmen to secure their horses. Blake’s and Charlton’s men to take down the women’s trunks and strap them aboard. Charlton’s young tiger to clear the public coach of items in the cab.
Blake checked her eyes for signs of distress, her pulse too. As if he had a script, he asked her about the condition of her heads, arms, fingers, and legs. She was well? Unhurt? She was certain? He went on to do the same for Welles. Thankfully, her maid incurred no injuries either.
He and his friend had pulled Welles out first, because the maid was nearer the door. Mary came next because she was more mobile than Fifi.
But Fifi was injured. When the lead horses slipped their reins and the coach took a corner it did not manage well, Fifi had jammed her foot to the opposite bench. She was in pain, biting her lip against it. Blake and his friend had extracted her ever so carefully from the wreck. But she was unable to stand on her foot. Charlton—whom Blake had hastily introduced to all—caught Fifi up in his arms to carry her away and place her in his coach.
“Sprained your ankle. I know the signs,” Charlton told her. A strapping tall fellow of severe dark good looks, he had been adamant that he treat Fifi. There he sat opposite her and raised her skirts.
“Stop!” She grabbed his wrist. She might be in pain, but she was also in her right mind. “You can’t do that! It’s shocking!”
“I’ll tell you what’s really shocking.” Charlton had no patience for niceties and pointed at her foot. “You want to walk on this, Lady Fiona? Ever again?”
“Of course.”
“Then I will see your ankle.”
White with pain and pique, she slowly lifted her skirts. And glared at him.
“More.”
She fumed.
He untied his cravat, slipped it off and said, “Your boot and stocking, too.”
“No.”
“Fifi,” Mary pleaded with her.
Blake put a hand to his friend’s wrist.
Charlton was not deterred. “Three choices, my lady. One, you remove your boot and stocking now. Two, I cut them off you myself. Three, we wait, in which case, you will never get them off because your ankle will be too swollen. What then is your decision?”
“Are you such an ogre to everyone?” Fifi snapped.
“Only to ladies who refuse proper treatment. Now. Shall I unlace your boot or do you wish to be crippled for the rest of your life?”
Fifi blustered but she bent over and unlaced her own boot. Then she thrust her foot toward him.
Charlton carefully secured it to his lap. “Good. Will you roll down your stocking please?”
“Turn away.”
With a bark, he did.
“Mary,” Blake turned her attention to him, “what were you doing in a public coach?”
“Mine needs repairs and couldn’t be done before Lady Fiona and I were to leave.”
“Allow me to convey my condolences about the death of your parents. In person this time.” He looked repentant.
The only letter she’d had from him, kind but curt as it was, had been one of sympathy for the loss of her parents. She didn’t wish to mar their reunion so soon with apologies. “Please let’s not speak of it.”
“Agreed. I deplore discussions of it all. So.” He covered her hand with his own large warm one—and twined his fingers in hers. “Where are you both off to?”
“Courtland Hall.”
His dark blue eyes twinkled. “The Courtlands’ May Day Frolic? We are, too.”
She grinned. The new recruits.
“The what?” he asked.
Where was her tapestry needle? “New visitors to the Frolic.”
“We are!”
Fifi yelped as Charlton wrapped his cravat around her ankle and pulled tight. “Be careful, sir!”
“I won’t kill you!”
Mary doubted that, but focused on Blake. “Were you both in Bath?”
“Yes. Visiting Charlton’s uncle. He was an instructor at Woolwich. Geometry and algebra. I liked him tremendously. Retired now, he is not well.” Curiosity crossed his finely-boned features. “Why aren’t you living in your family’s cottage near Canterbury?”
“The new earl wanted that one for himself.”
“I must speak to him. You loved that little house.”
“I did and you must not talk to him on my behalf. I’m happy in Bath. It is small. Society is intimate. Lady Fiona and I occupy ourselves there. But I had no idea you knew Winston.” Her cousin had inherited the Dalworthy title and lands upon her father’s death.
“I met him years ago. Delightful fellow. I’d expect he does the earldom proud.”
“He does. But tell me about you.” She ignored the question of why he’d not written to her, save for his note of condolence. Upbraiding him was no way to resume their friendship. Instead, she’d learn everything he’d done since last they met. Had he fought at Waterloo? Was he with the Occupation forces now? Would he return abroad? “You’re home to England. Since when? How? And have you taken up your duties of Lawton Abbey? Now that you are Baron Lawton-Bridges, will you resign your commission in the Royal Engineers?”
“Good questions. I’ve not many answers yet. For one, I’m surprised that both Fred and Charles are gone. Third sons are never meant to inherit but to conquer the world in other ways. I only just arrived from the Continent two weeks ago and I debate what I’ll do about my commission. In fact, one reason I wished to visit with my former instructor is because I wanted his advice.” Frustration on his brow, he glanced out the window and back. “Nonetheless, here I am. Going to a party, no less!”
“Have you been home?”
Home. The word stuck in her throat. Home. She shut her eyes, remembering the rambling red brick mansion along the Ouse. It stood across the river from the white stone Palladian of his own ancestral home, Lawton Abbey. She’d forgotten so much of her life there, her gaiety, her family. Him. She’d forced herself to forget. Told herself not to pine for it. For him.
He cupped her cheek. “Oh, Birdie. You loved it so. Have you not returned since your parents died? Did Winston not invite you? The bounder. I shall speak to him.”
She squeezed his arm. “Oh, don’t. To gain the earldom was a shock for him. He’s coming here to the Frolic and it’s the first time he’s invited. Be kind to him.”
“For you? I shall not take it up with him. But if he shows no honor to you here, I will haul him down to the river, box his ears and throw him in.”
“Oh, thank you!” She rolled her eyes, happy to spar with him just as they were before he left to return to Paris in ‘fourteen. “That should set him right.”
He settled more comfortably against the squabs. Still he held her hand. “Tell me do you still have your telescope?”
“I do.”
“And in Bath do you grow beans or…radishes, was it?”
“They’ve not come up this year. I have kale and cabbage sprouts, a few others.”
“Flowers, too, as I recall.”
“I’ve had problems with my garden. I’m worried. My roses are not budding as profusely this year.”
“Have you pruned them back already?”
She smiled at him. How many men would talk about roses? “I have.”
“Do you see green flies on them?”
“No. It’s early for those to attack…but by the first of May I usually see more buds than I have at the moment.”
He was thoughtful. “We should talk about remedies for that.”
“I’d like that. Might you return to Bath after the Frolic? You could come see my garden and advise me.”
“I’d like to.” He paused in glum consideration of some issue.
“Oh? What are your plans?” She brought herself up short. “I apologize. I intrude.”
“You don’t. I have business in London. Then south to the estate to meet with the manager and tenants. It’s a large enterprise and I must get on with familiarizing myself with the workings. Letters don’t paint the best picture. Plus, it seems like another lifetime since I was there—and then I was not concerned with its operations. Only making an occasional friend of a cow or two. Now I do wonder if I can live there.” He pursed his lips as he considered that fact. “It’s going to be so different with all of them gone.”
She leaned closer to him, his loss so much like hers. The fragrance of lemon rose to her nostrils and the solace of his cologne was a sweet memory and a sudden new enticement. “I understand.”
His navy blue eyes locked on hers in communion. “I would say you do.”
Her delight in his regard sparked a thirst for more from him. “One reason I like the house in Bath is because there I see fewer ghosts.”
“Birdie,” he said in that velvet voice that lured as smoothly as strong brandy. “We are the survivors. We should be free of ghosts.”
“Someday perhaps…”
He let go of her hand, lifted his arm to curl around her and hugged her near. The familiarity gave a jolt to her pulse. “We will go to this party and rid ourselves of them. Agreed?”
“I do.”
“We shall laugh, you and I. You will play the piano and sing. I shall turn pages for you.”
“You will sing, dear sir.”
He let out a laugh. “You still don’t?”
“Only when I hear requests from those who are deaf.”
He laughed. “And I will dance with you.”
She bit her lip and glanced down at her lap.
“Sweet girl, do not tell me you still do not dance.”
“No, I do not.”
He tipped up her chin, his fingertips gentle on her skin, his gaze compassionate. “You coward.”
She pressed her lips together. “My last dance was with you.”
“In London.” He captured a wild tendril of her hair and slid his fingers along the long curl. Then he pushed it behind her ear. “I remember.”
She nearly wept with joy at his recollection.
He was the one who’d been with her when she’d fallen in the woods. They were playing hide and go seek and she’d tripped over a fallen log. An old rotten limb had pierced her thigh. And it was he who had pulled it out, then carried her more than two miles to home where her mother laid her on the settee, cleaned the gash and bound her up. For a week, she’d struggled with a fever and infection. The surgeon thought they might have to amputate. Or worse, that she’d develop gangrene and die. Each day, Blake had come to call. Each day, he brought something she loved. An acorn. A chess set. Him.
Always him.
“We’ll all see to this new patient,” he said. “Then you and I will have hours together, recalling who we were when we were young. I will sing. You will play the piano. And together, we will dance.”
He sat back, his arm securely around her shoulders. Oh, he was well pleased with himself.
And she?
Oh, my. She was exhilarated. A nervous ninny hammer. A gay girl as she could not recall she’d ever truly been. Because…oh, dare she think it, lest she blurt it out? She put two fingers to her lips to seal in the truth.
Yes, for the first time in two years, she felt the affection she’d missed, the endearments she’d forgotten, the sweetness of one who regarded her with total acceptance.
* * *
He never thought he’d find Birdie like this. Of a sudden. In a coaching accident, no less. In need of help to set her to rights. But when she was jostled in an accident and in vast need of his comfort, his life became more difficult.
She had been on his mind since he’d returned to England. Hell, he’d thought of her constantly all the years he’d been away. More since his two older brothers died and he thought of home. Especially since he’d seen her in London in ‘fourteen. Then he had enjoyed himself with her, played piano duets and given in to the temptation of decades and kissed her. Numerous times. A meeting of lips and tongues and an ardor borne of years together and years apart.
For weeks after his return to Paris, he’d pondered how he could propose to her. His future was as uncertain then as it was now, despite his inheritance of the estate. To be the Baron Lawton-Bridges was no small responsibility. To be Captain Lord Bridges at the same time complicated the running of the estate and raised questions of his future in the Corps. But he’d had a peace to claim, and then when Bony returned to Paris from Elba, he’d had battles to fight, a war to win all over again. Whatever raptures he had found with Mary in those days at home, he had quickly abandoned. Not just because wanting a wife was so impractical given his job, but because he’d learned something worse: He could not trust her. That shocked him and sobered him. And he threw himself into the challenges of defeating Bonaparte with more vigor than ever. The memory of her white moon glow hair, the pale pink of her lips and the peal of her laughter diminished because he killed it. She was no longer the sweet sylph who could lure him to sleep.
Lady Mary's May Day Mischief: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 2 Page 3
