by Marlowe Mia
As she and Lord Henley took their places near the foot of the lines, Caroline decided Lawrence would just have to wait until after the reel to propose. In fact, a delay might do him good.
She didn’t want him thinking she’d swoon into his arms for the asking, even though that was exactly what she wanted to do.
No. I need to be coy. I need to make him want my hand with all his heart and wonder until the last second whether I’ll deign to give it. Yes, a bit of waiting is just what the man needs.
As she moved into the first figures with Lord Henley, she cast another glance toward the door.
Could she stand a bit of waiting? Ah! That was the question.
* * * *
The string quartet had been rejuvenated by their supper break and now filled the air with a lilting melody. Conversation among the guests who were watching instead of dancing provided a low, rumbling chatter. They sounded like a flock of ducks to Lawrence, nattering away beneath the higher tones of the violins. Everyone’s attention was on the dancers, so no one noticed when he slipped back into the drawing room.
He spied Colonel Boyle standing near the open doors that led out to the garden. His old commanding officer was conversing with a young lady dressed in a pallid lavender gown trimmed with black piping. Her jet earrings gleamed darkly, but she wore no other jewelry.
Lawrence wasn’t an expert in ladies’ fashions, but he recognized half mourning when he saw it. The loss was distant enough for the woman to have put off her widow’s weeds, but fresh enough not to return to wearing more than the palest of colors.
He moved along the perimeter of the room to join the colonel and his companion.
Lawrence was ready to commit to purchasing that major’s commission this very night. After all, he couldn’t very well ask for Caroline’s hand without a way to support her. The military was a respectable profession. She’d be marrying down in the eyes of the ton, but as an officer, he’d still be judged a gentleman. Now that he knew she was keen to travel, he was certain the adventure of living in a far-off land would appeal to her. It would be a romantic and exciting way to begin married life.
The more he thought about it, the more he liked his chances.
“I wonder if I might have a word with you, sir,” Lawrence said to his old commander.
“Of course, Sinclair. Fine dancing this evening, what? But where are my manners? Allow me to present you to Mrs. Smythe-Marten.” Captain Boyle finished the introductions with a listing of the medals for bravery Lawrence had been awarded during his time of service.
He shifted uncomfortably under the colonel’s praise. He never felt he deserved those commendations when most of the time, he had little recollection of his actions on the field. When the warrior within burst out of him, he was driven forward on training and instinct alone. His memory of specific events grew fuzzy, which he counted a blessing, all things considered. Sometimes even the details he did recall felt as though they’d happened to someone else.
“Charmed,” Lawrence said to Mrs. Smythe-Marten once the colonel finished his accolades. He made a courtly obeisance over the lady’s proffered hand and then straightened to his full height. “Smythe-Marten, you say? That name is familiar to me.”
“It should be,” Colonel Boyle said. “Mrs. Smythe-Marten’s husband served under Macdonell. His actions during the Battle of Waterloo will never be forgotten.”
Though Lawrence had fought in that battle as well, there were several fronts and he’d only learned how other companies fared after the smoke cleared. The Duke of Wellington had designated the château of Hougoumont as the strategic forward position of the British army. During the battle, Lieutenant Colonel Sir James Macdonell of Glengarry, with only a thousand foot guards, defended the chateau against a force of eighty-five hundred Frenchmen. Captain Smythe-Marten had commanded the company that guarded the gate of the stronghold, which bore the brunt of the assault, but in the end held firm. Wellington himself said the outcome of the whole battle hung on the fact that the chateau had not been taken.
Captain Smythe-Marten, however, was.
“Your husband was a gallant gentleman and a brilliant officer, ma’am.”
Lawrence’s words were intended to bring comfort. It was what one said to the bereaved when a man gave his life in the service. But when Lawrence looked into the sad eyes of Captain Smythe-Marten’s widow, he saw that his words only meant her husband was dead and she was alone in the world.
Lawrence glanced across the room and saw Caroline dancing with an older gentleman. Her eyes were bright, her color high. She was full of promise. Of life.
For a moment, he imagined her clad in a black gown.
What if, after dragging her to some godforsaken outpost at the foot of the Himalayas, he fell in a skirmish?
She’d be half a world away from her family and friends.
Alone.
His dream of a life with Caroline at his side began to crumble. Not even the promise of showing her the Zanzibar of her dreams could hold it together.
“You said you wished to speak to me, Sinclair.” Colonel Boyle eyed him shrewdly. “May I hope that means you’ve decided to take the commission we discussed?”
“I would welcome the chance to serve with you again, sir, but…there are matters that require my immediate attention elsewhere.” He glanced at Caroline again, his heart like lead. “I have decided I…I will let you know before your company sails.”
Chapter 22
She was my goddess, my bright angel. Love burned in me like an inferno. But I was ever myself, too wary of a misstep to speak. Wordlessly, I adored her. Hopelessly, I worshipped her. Now only a thin plume of smoke wafts from the rubble.
“Oh, fiend take it, what rubbish!”
—Lawrence Sinclair, crumpling up the page and tossing it into the fireplace.
“Is everything packed?” Lawrence asked his valet, looking up from the last of his correspondence. Once these missives were delivered, all his accounts would be settled.
“Yes, sir,” Dudley grumbled as he fastened the strap on Lawrence’s trunk. “Will there be anything else?”
“Deliver these round to White’s, my tailor, and the landlady.” Lawrence handed him the sealed letters containing various payments. Then he reached into his pocket for a handful of coins. “Give these to the boy and send him to the coaching inn to buy three tickets for Cumberland. There’s a coach leaving London this afternoon, and I intend that we should be on it.”
“Billy is like to run off with your money, sir.”
“I think not. The boy’s never been anywhere. He won’t be able to resist a chance to go to the country.”
Lawrence stood to go, but Dudley didn’t leap immediately to help him into the jacket that had been draped over his chair. He even had to reach into the cupboard to retrieve his own hat.
Good thing I’m not accustomed to having a valet.
Dudley wasn’t the best of servants in normal times. Now, he was nearly useless, pining for Alice before he’d even left her.
“Don’t know why you’re set on taking Billy with us,” Dudley said morosely. “The boy scarcely does a thing around here, and besides that, he must have worms, the way he goes through his victuals without putting on a bit of flesh.”
Lawrence suspected Billy didn’t really eat that much. More than once, he’d caught him squirreling away buns and sausages in his capacious pockets. The boy shared some of his bounty with friends who were still shifting for themselves on the street. Lawrence couldn’t fault him for that.
“I have plans for young Mr. Two Toes.” Lawrence hoped to arrange for the boy to stay on at Ware as a stable hand. The country air would do him good. “And plans for you as well.”
He hadn’t told Dudley about India yet. The valet was upset enough over leaving his sweetheart for the wilds of Cumberland. Dudley would be apoplectic over a sea
voyage to the most distant outpost of the British Empire. However, Bredon had insisted Lawrence keep Dudley on and was willing to continue paying his salary to make it so; there was no sending him back to Lovell House. It would have seemed ungrateful. Though his friend had fobbed off a problem servant on him, Lawrence wouldn’t dismiss the less-than-adequate Dudley. Given time, perhaps he’d warm to his duties. Given the sack, he would be at the mercy of London in short order.
Even as a boy, Lawrence had never been able to resist picking up a stray.
“I shall meet the pair of you at the coaching inn,” he said in a tone that brooked no further argument. Then Lawrence left his suite of rooms on Rathbone Street for the final time. He had one loose end to tie up before he left London.
He’d rather have faced a dozen well-armed Frenchmen than settle this final debt, but there was nothing for it.
He owed Caroline a good-bye.
* * * *
Caroline was beyond out of patience with men in general, and with Lawrence Sinclair in particular. It had been three days since Lord Frampton’s ball. How could the man announce to his uncle that he intended to marry her and then blithely ignore her?
He’d left the ball without even saying good night.
The next evening, she’d casually inquired at supper if her brothers had encountered him at White’s. Evidently, he’d not made an appearance at the exclusively male club because all she heard were grunts of denial from the men around the dinner table.
Surely Lawrence would ask her father’s blessing before he proposed. It was the done thing, after all. So she wondered aloud to the earl whether or not Mr. Sinclair had been round to discuss anything with him.
“Anything at all?”
If Caroline had sprouted a second head, the earl could not have shot her a more surprised look.
“I don’t believe Mr. Sinclair and I have any points of common interest,” her father had said, raising a quizzical brow. “He’s Bredon’s friend, not mine.”
Her brother Teddy studied his dinner plate with absorption. If he was privy to Lawrence’s whereabouts, he wasn’t telling.
Frederica and Horatia were no help either. They’d been to a flute recital, a dinner party at Lady Eastbrook’s, and a lecture on the beauties of mythology at the Society for the Preservation of Our Classical Heritage since Lord Frampton’s ball.
“Mr. Sinclair wasn’t at the recital or the dinner,” Frederica had told her.
“Freddie slept through most of the lecture, so she wouldn’t have noticed if Zeus himself had paraded past her,” Horatia had confided.
“I wasn’t asleep,” Frederica insisted. “I was merely resting my eyes.”
“Accompanied by a charming little snore.” Horatia patted her forearm. “But if Mr. Sinclair had been there, Caro, I promise, I’d have noticed.”
No one had seen the elusive Lawrence Sinclair. Caroline’s nerves were wound tighter than the longcase clock.
So when Price announced that Mr. Sinclair had come to call, Caroline nearly went to pieces. Hat in hand, Lawrence filled the parlor doorway with his uniquely masculine presence.
This is it. Calm yourself, she ordered herself sternly. The tone she set now might color their entire married life. Begin as you mean to continue.
“Lawrence,” she said, once Mr. Price left them in the parlor, with the door properly open to ensure propriety was observed, of course. It’s good to see you, she meant to say, but the words stuck in her throat.
It wasn’t just good to see him. All she could do was see him. The rest of the world melted away around him like a chalk drawing in the rain.
So tall, so strong, so dreadfully wounded inside.
She knew now where his hurts were, and she was confident she could heal them if he’d let her.
“Caroline.” He, too, seemed unable to make his voice work.
She gave herself an inward shake. “Shall I ring for tea?” Fussing with a teapot would keep her hands from trembling.
“No, thank you,” he said with distant politeness. He turned the brim of his hat through his fingers. Evidently, his hands needed something to do, too. “I don’t expect I shall be here long enough for tea.”
“Then perhaps you should come to the point,” she said. An edge of impatience crept into her tone, but she tried to force it down. This moment was something she would remember all her life. She wanted Lawrence’s proposal to be a pleasant memory, not one accompanied by the jumble of frustration that churned through her now. So she smiled at him and said lightly, “If you’re not quick about it, I’ll send for crumpets in any case, so you’ll have something to do with your hands besides wear the felt off that hat.”
He stopped fiddling with the gray topper, but he didn’t lift his gaze from it.
Anticipation made this moment take forever to arrive, but an actual proposal was a very simple matter indeed. They could complete the whole thing in three words.
“Will you?”
“Yes.”
Of course, every girl wanted hearts and flowers, poetry and a fellow on bended knee, but Lawrence wasn’t that sort of man. Not that he didn’t feel things deeply. She knew he did. His proposal would be unadorned. Probably unconventional.
But she was sure it would be heartfelt.
Once she’d given her consent, they’d both have so many things to do in preparation for the wedding, she didn’t even mind that he couldn’t stay long. They’d have the rest of their lives to take tea together.
Lawrence finally spoke. “I’m leaving London. This afternoon, in fact.”
A piece of her heart broke off and crumbled inside her. “Where are you going?”
“You guessed it,” he said with a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “I’m going to Ware.”
“Oh.” She smiled back at him, remembering how his confusion over where and Ware had led to that tortured first conversation in this very parlor.
“My mother—” he began.
“Oh, yes, of course,” Caroline interrupted. How could she have been so selfishly stupid? Lawrence had not seen his mother since he and Bredon returned from the Continent. “Naturally, you wish to assure her you’re home safe and sound.”
“No, it’s not that. I mean, it’s not only that,” he said, finally meeting her gaze. “She’s…ill. Consumption. According to my uncle, she’s in the final stages. I only just learned of it.”
Caroline sank into a nearby chair. “Oh, Lawrence, I’m so sorry. Please, sit.”
“No, truly, I cannot stay.”
“But you may as well sit until you leave,” she insisted. “Honestly, why must you be so difficult?”
“My apologies. I don’t mean to be a trial. I merely came to say good-bye.”
She rose and crossed to stand in front of him. “You felt it important to tell me good-bye?”
“You must think it so, my lady,” he said with another small smile. “After all, you once followed me across London so you could chide me for neglecting to do so.”
She nodded. “Indeed I did. I fear I have some very unladylike tendencies.”
“Which only I seem to bring out,” he said, taking a step toward her. “Perhaps my leaving is for the best.”
No, she wanted to cry. How could parting from each other ever be best? Now she’d have to wait for that proposal until he’d seen to his poor mother’s comfort. “When will you return?”
“I don’t believe I will. At least not for longer than it takes for me to board a ship at Wapping Dock,” he said. “Colonel Boyle has offered me a major’s commission.”
Taking ship? They could be married by the captain once they put to sea. How refreshingly different. How utterly romantic. Caroline couldn’t have arranged matters better herself.
“Where would w—I mean, you be posted?”
“India.”
“The
Gorgeous East! How marvelous.” Caroline’s heart pounded with excitement. The love of a good man, adventure, travel—she was only a few words away from everything she’d ever wanted. “Just think on it. You’ll be seeing the world, Lawrence.”
“But I won’t be seeing you.”
If this was the man’s way of proposing, he was doing an abysmal job of it. She’d have to give him a nudge. “There is a way for you change that, you know.”
“I know,” he said. “And once I’d dared hope…that perhaps you…”
Out with it! She’d never had to pry the words from her other suitors. Lawrence was singular in so many ways. She just wished this wasn’t one of them.
“You are right to dare,” she said softly, “because there is always hope.”
“No, Caroline. Sometimes there isn’t. Trust me when I tell you, this is how things must be. You will not see me again. Good-bye, my lo—” He stopped himself. “Good-bye.”
He turned and started toward the door.
He wasn’t proposing. He was leaving. Forever.
“Good-bye? Is that all you have for me?” she said in a strangled voice.
The sob in her words must have stopped him, for he turned to look at her. His dark eyes were a study in misery.
“Do you not love me?” Tears pressed against the backs of her eyes and found their way down her cheeks. “Even a little?”
Something like hunger was etched on his features. Then, suddenly, he crossed the room in only a few long paces, grabbed her, and pulled her to him, close, so close she could feel his chest expand with each breath. He kissed her mouth, her cheeks, her closed eyes. His hands found her hair and her coiffure faced ruin, but she didn’t care. Not as long as he kept kissing her. There was little tenderness in his embrace. In fact, she suspected she’d have more than one bruise from the way he held her so tightly, but she wouldn’t have pulled away for worlds.
The low ache inside wouldn’t let her. She pressed herself against him, need and desire so mingled, she wasn’t sure who was savaging whom.
