As a boy he’d never called his regard for her love. Or infatuation. He’d known her as the scamp who lived across the river. The one he fished with. Explored the forests with. Rode with. Learned how to hunt with…or dance with…until she fell and nearly died. After that, he learned how to walk more slowly with her. A minor concession to the knowledge that she lived, whole, save for a limp that never marred her petite and fragile beauty or her jolly ways. If he persisted to cajole her to carry on, to learn how to walk again, if she called him a pest, it was a small price to rid her of self pity. To know she walked the earth, even without him beside her, as the girl who brought a smile to his lips and to his soul, gave him abundant reasons to fight and prevail.
But no, he had not loved her. He could not. Not as other men proclaimed they loved their intendeds or their wives. He had been graced or damned with a different social life from many of his colleagues. Most were not of the upper one hundred; most Royal Engineers came from lesser strata. Sons of merchants or bankers, clergy or military went to school at Woolwich. To be admitted, they had to have shown some skills in mathematics or geometry and some knowledge of chemistry, geology or botany. And they had to have passed an examination to verify their abilities. As the third son of a baron, whose title and lands dated from William the Conqueror, Blake had never entertained remaining on the land of his father. He’d always known he was more than ‘The Spare’. He was ‘The Irrelevant’. To make a living, he must move on and outward. Moreover, he’d never considered himself a match for the only daughter of an earl, albeit the one who was his dearest friend.
He did not permit himself to love her. Before that day two years ago in London when he’d kissed her and caressed her and yearned to make her his wife, he had not allowed himself even to pine for her. To do so would have brought him heartache. And as a military man, he could not afford disabilities of any kind. His work, which he loved, was his life. His work, which absorbed him and fulfilled him, consumed his every waking moment. He could not make mistakes. A miscalculation in the length of road to be traveled, the depth of a river to be crossed or the height of a castle wall to be scaled or exploded could not only cost days and weeks or months of missed opportunities to engage the enemy. It could mean wagon trains of dynamite were inadequate to the job. Miners could dig to the wrong depth. Sappers could sit by the side of muddy roads instead of digging the tunnels beneath Spanish and French fortifications that would blow a hole in their works and let the victorious British through. Worse, men could starve because he failed to clear a supply train efficiently. Men could lie wounded because he failed to repair a bridge to let in the medical team. Men could die because he had misread the topography of the battlefield and the enemy had gained the high ground, the advantage…and he had failed his duty.
But with the end of conflict, he faced a different set of circumstances, familial as well as personal. He had come home because his work in France was done. The war was over, the peace treaty signed and Bonaparte safely tucked in the south Atlantic. It meant his own future as a Royal Engineer would devolve to other duties, other tasks. Instead of blowing bridges up, he would construct them to last a thousand years. Instead of drawing landscapes to inform Wellington of battlefield topography, he might survey land here or across the seas. Yes, change might mean he’d be ordered to other countries. He had an appointment next week with his commander to discuss his future assignments. But he also had to impress upon that man the importance and urgency of his other newer responsibility as heir to his father. He had responsibilities there. Not simply to the house or the land. But more importantly to his father’s tenants. Just as he had regarded Wellington’s soldiers as his responsibility to provide for, so too did he regard his father’s people as his own to raise up to the prosperity they deserved.
He had not predicted he would see Mary at all, let alone so soon. Not as the result of an accident. Not in the road. In need of assistance. He had not hoped to visit with her or put his arms around her or comfort her. He’d wished to avoid any intimacy because he had no rights to begin any relationship with her when he had no clear vision of his future to offer her. Plus that other matter still rankled. She was assertive, that he’d always known. Her friends relied on her to help them. That too he understood because she thought in creative ways. But one time, she’d gone too far and a friend of his had suffered for it. Only the war and his need to devote his full attention to his job had taken his mind from his despair over her actions.
But he was to be three days in her company—and heaven help him, he did not wish to change what stretched before him. Despite his uncertainty about his future and about her nature, he would not, could not push her away. He curled her closer, his one arm around her shoulders and his other hand holding hers. Whatever question he could ask about his tomorrows, the contentment that fell over him was a peace he’d searched for as he sought sleep on countless battlefields and never found without her lovely face before him.
So it was with that he asked himself if now he might forget that niggling question of her character. Could he not allow himself to proclaim he loved her?
Had he not for all his life?
Chapter 4
Charlton’s carriage pulled into the circular drive of Courtland Hall just behind another. Mary recognized the gold trim of their two friends’ ebony traveling coach.
Ivy and Grace Livingston were twins, the only daughters of the Earl of Seaford. They, along with Esme, Fifi and Mary and one other young lady Willa Sheffield, had formed a cadre of good fellowship at Miss Shipley’s School. A few other girls, like Millicent and Sandrine, had joined them for a year or two, as they came or went from school to their debuts. But the six had been the core. For seven years, they’d studied dance and piano, French and household management, along with the proprieties that the headmistress declared would make them spouses worthy of the best gentlemen in the land. Yet, considering the wars had taken many eligible young men away to the Navy and the Army, none of the six was yet married. Ranging in ages from twenty-three to twenty-five, the friends—except now Esme—approached that most prickly of conditions, spinsterhood.
The one woman who stood at the door ready to receive them all with her parents was younger than the rest—and soon would no longer be part of their cohort. Esme had golden-brown hair, coffee brown eyes and a laugh hearty as red wine. She’d always tagged along with the other five. Aspired to be included in all they did. And constantly tried to do the right thing by them all, be fair-minded in card games, sharing her skills in tapestry, but who constantly pushed herself forward, blatantly so. Despite her rabid need to be first in French, her preening with new fashions—and her attempt to charm every girl’s brother who came to the school to visit, Esme was included in the girls’ festivities, but welcomed to them only because she was generous with her knowledge, her advice and her empathy. Her passion to be first and foremost at every subject, every art with every person, teacher or parent or brother, had created disharmony. Now that she was first among them in the most coveted of any young woman’s aspirations—to marry and do it well, Mary hoped that Esme’s pride of place would engender some humility in her soul.
Indeed Esme greeted them at her front door with a most wholesome smile and kind words. Her parents—Lord Courtland and his wife—were gracious, hailing each of the new arrivals with a warm-heartedness that spoke of true joy at seeing them all. But it was the sight of Fifi tightly bound in the strong arms of Lord Charlton who commanded everyone’s attentions.
Mary explained what had happened to their public conveyance and how the two men had rescued them. Then it was Lord Courtland, who evidently had met Lord Charlton before, who introduced him to his wife and his daughter Esme.
Charlton did the same for Blake. “My friend, a famous fellow who saved many of us from the wraths of the French. A fine engineer, Captain Lord Lawton-Bridges.”
“Bridges will do,” Blake offered.
“All of you must have had a terrible fright. Do go right up
to rest.” Lady Courtland fussed over the four of them, but worried over Fifi. She was her maternal aunt and most caring of her niece. “You look quite ashen, my dear girl.”
Lord Courtland summoned one of his footmen. “We’ll have Thomas here carry her up and relieve you, Lord Charlton.”
“Unnecessary, sir,” said Charlton with ease. “The lady is secure in my embrace.”
“But you must be tired,” Fifi countermanded him, her lips stiff.
He narrowed his gaze on her and a ghost of a smile curved his mouth. “Never. You are light as a feather.”
Fifi set her teeth. “You are too kind.”
Charlton ignored her sarcasm and turned to the footman assigned to assist him. “Thomas? Onward, man!”
Befuddled, Lord Courtland glanced from the earl to his niece and back again. “Carry on. Of course. We’ll send Fifi’s trunks up as soon as possible.”
“Marvelous,” Fifi chirped, hooking her arms more tightly around her rescuer’s neck. The smile she threw him—Mary could have bet—would tempt a thousand angels…if it were for any other than this diabolically irritating earl. “Walk on, sir.”
That man was already headed up the main staircase when his lordship called to him. “I say, Lord Charlton, shall I send for a surgeon?”
“No,” both he and Fifi responded at once.
Charlton paused, then slowly faced his host. “I’ve examined Lady Fiona’s ankle, sir, and she needs rest, a compress and ice.”
As ever, there was no brooking Charlton’s command of the situation.
“Ice!” Lady Courtland said. “Of course!”
“Perhaps, tea, too, Aunt?” Fifi asked over his shoulder as her chivalrous knight resumed his assent of the stairs. “Cakes?”
Mary stifled a chuckle. Fifi and her cakes!
“You shall have it, dear girl. And you, Lord Charlton? May I send you tea as well?”
“Tea would be splendid, Lady Courtland.” He did not stop but took the landing around.
“Aunt?” Fifi called down. “Brandy is in order. For his lordship, you see.”
Mary could have sworn Charlton winked at the woman in his arms. “Fine idea!”
Lord Courtland rubbed his hands together. “Certainly! Should have said it myself. You shall have it!”
“Superb,” their guests answered in chorus as Charlton proceeded up the stairs with his burden.
Mary had never seen two people duel so verbally. Why were they so antagonistic to each other?
“I say, my dear,” Lord Courtland addressed his wife as he watched the two disappear. “That is quite a jolt. Will she be able to enjoy herself?”
“I do hope so,” she fretted, then turned to her other guests. “Forgive me. We are quite undone, aren’t we? We have a full tea at the ready in the salon. Or perhaps you wish to retire? Refresh?”
“Yes, I’d like that,” Mary said, intent on looking in on Fifi before she did much else. “May I join you in half an hour, perhaps?”
Blake agreed he’d like to be settled into his rooms first.
“Of course, you may. All of you. Come, William. Henry, too?” She summoned two footmen who snapped to attention. “Do show Lady Mary to her room and Lord Bridges to his.”
Blake and she excused themselves and took the stairs together.
Mary leaned close to him. “Is Lord Charlton always so assertive?”
“Comes with being an infantry man, I’d say.”
Truly, a brave man, but brusque. “Fiona doesn’t need to be ordered about.”
“I’m sure. Charlton does act oddly. Not certain why, but whatever it is, we must forgive him. Men home from battlefields have challenges with the ordinariness of peace.”
“Still,” she worried, “I wonder what he hopes to achieve.”
Just as the footman stopped and indicated they were to separate, Blake to the east wing, and Mary to the west, she caught his sleeve. “Will you ask him to apologize, please?”
“Frankly, I doubt I’ll have to. He’s a good man. He’ll come around to act more the gentleman.” He squeezed her hand. “Don’t fret, Mary.”
She grew wistful of a sudden. “Am I not Birdie to you any longer?”
“Birdie was the girl I knew. This Mary before me is older, lovelier.”
She’d never thought of herself as lovely. Nor had he ever been so complimentary. “I’ve not had anyone tell me that.”
“I am pleased to be the only one.” He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Until later. Mary.”
Tickled, she sank in a curtsy. “Lord Bridges.”
* * *
What was he doing complimenting Mary so?
Blake listened half-heartedly to the footman William as he pointed out the features of his accommodations. The sitting room was large with a small settee and two chairs. The bedroom, facing the parterre in the lee of the house, offered a chair, wardrobe and a bed with heavy red and gold brocade hangings. The fittings brought a stab of nostalgia for his family’s home on the river Ouse. Surprise at that wistful desire swept him as he had been honest with Mary that he held misgivings about living there permanently. Of course, it was his family duty to take on the running of the estate. Yet he knew more about Spanish coastal roads and French rivers than he did about the land and waterways of his childhood home.
Seeing Mary had revived happy memories of his laughing parents and his two precocious brothers. Of her family, too, who were their fondest friends, sharing celebrations of birthdays and Christmas. He hadn’t counted on the desires her presence inspired. Not for home or hearth or kin—or her. She breathed and walked, more vivid than memory. She laughed, flesh and blood reminder of his childhood, his follies and his pranks. She sparkled, a kaleidoscope of dreams, the talisman who helped him to survive barbaric nightmares of his dismemberment and death. She was sympathetic, worried for her friend. That commended her to him and made him ask himself the true depth of his mistrust of her.
She had hurt his friend and cohort, an infantry officer who was also friend to Charlton. Captain Lord Langdon had met Miss Weaver three years ago in London and found her so delightful, he’d proposed within days of meeting her. But a friend of Millicent’s—Mary—had dissuaded her from accepting him. Langdon was stunned, furious and returned to his men in France, a bewildered man. One who drank and gambled far too much and much too rashly. Foxed to his gills day in and out, he sobered before he went before the French at Quatre Bras. In the barrage, he’d received shot in his left arm. Though he’d not lost his limb, he’d lost its use and he repaired to his country home a bitter man.
Blake could not discount that harm she’d done his friend two years ago. He’d known Mary as a girl saving his own life. Rescuing a dog from the river. Dragging him from it, too. Parting two people who cared for each other was quite another. Did she know how damaging her involvement was? He’d ask her. He must. For how else could he trust her? Love demanded that. Lust required none.
He desired her, he had for years. But convention and status had barred her from him. Now, he was titled and astonishingly rich. He was the equal of the earl’s daughter. Dastardly, that now he had the means to court her, he suddenly met this road block. It should be easy to fix the problem. Yet he worried.
He ran a hand through his hair.
“My lord?” One footman beckoned from the doorway.
Two more footmen arrived carrying his trunk, and as they did, the doors to the hall stood open. Charlton passed by, led on by the footman who’d been assigned to show him his rooms. Another scurried behind them, a brandy decanter in hand.
“Yes? William, is it?”
“It is, my lord. Shall I arrange your clothes?”
Neither he nor Charlton employed valets, home in England too recently to hire servants. “Take your time. ”
“As you wish, my lord.”
“I’ll return in a few minutes.” At that, he left to track down Charlton.
The door to the next suite was open. He knocked for permission to e
nter.
Charlton beckoned. “Ah, good. Do sit, if you wish.”
He took the chair while Charlton busied himself with pouring brandy. “No. None for me, thank you. Got Lady Fiona settled, did you?”
“I put her to a comfortable chair and propped her up with cushions. Warned her not to move until I returned. I also asked for sturdier bandages with which to rewrap her ankle. I’ll go back in a minute to do that. Luckily for her, her injury is minor. Ankle’s sore now, but it will heal quickly if she’s careful.”
“Your efforts are appreciated, I’m certain,” he said with a wry grin.
“Hmm. By many. But by this lady?” Charlton winced as he took the opposite chair and a quick sip of his brandy. “I’d wager not in this decade.”
Why so gruff toward this woman he’d just met? Charlton usually charmed a woman out of her stockings with more ease than a matador tempting a bull. “The battlefield teaches so many lessons.”
“Charm is not among them.” Charlton pursed his lips and nodded toward the two footmen.
He was leery of the men overhearing. Gossip among the servants was a known terror. “Glad to hear she is not badly injured.”
“I hope so.” Charlton leaned toward him. “I was a bit of a prig, wasn’t I?”
Blake arched both brows. “Do you think?”
“No need to beard the goat. I was. And I did offer her an apology.”
“Did you? Good of you. Did she accept?”
“She did. And you?” Charlton sat back, a grin on his face as he tipped his head. “You know Lady Mary well?”
“I did once.”
“And wish to again.”
Blake smiled. “Obvious, is it?”
“Like minds are not often discovered by accident in the middle of an abandoned road,” Charlton said.
Lady Mary's May Day Mischief: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 2 Page 4
