Dawn in My Heart

by Ruth Axtell Morren

  “Turn this vehicle around immediately!”

  He grinned wickedly, sparing her only a glance, and she realized her mistake. She sat back and fumed. “That’s not amusing.”

  “My apologies. You are easily repelled by any mention of the physical aspect of our relationship. It seems to bring out the worst in me. I ask your pardon.”

  Instead of replying to him, she craned her head around to take a last look at the park gates and gave a little sigh of regret.

  “I hope you’re not too disappointed with the change in plans. I have found the park choked with traffic. They’ve turned it into a veritable fairground since the victory,” he said in disgust.

  She turned back to settle in her seat. “I have scarcely seen the celebrations. Mother shares your opinion and deems it best to avoid the crowds.”

  When he made no comment but continued, focused on the road, Gillian fell silent, deciding to make the most of the outing. Tilting her head back, she breathed deeply of the warm June air, which was filled with the smells of vegetation from the park alongside and baked pastries from a nearby hawker selling meat pies. The sharp tang of leather from the curricle’s seat reminded her of drives with her father.

  She wished anew they could ride in the park, where her acquaintances might see her in this smart vehicle. It was well sprung and polished to a brilliant shine. Her hands caressed the supple leather seat. What a difference from riding in the closed landau with Templeton.

  Suddenly, she laughed, looking upward past the leafy trees to the powder-blue sky and soft white clouds beyond.

  Skylar gave her a brief look. “Enjoying yourself?”

  “Freedom from my jailer.”

  “The redoubtable Miss Templeton?”

  “The very one.”

  “If I had to select a companion to guard a young lady’s virtue, I do believe I would have chosen Miss Templeton.”

  Gillian gave him a sidelong glance. “She has been my shadow for the last three years.”

  “Tell me,” he asked, stepping up their speed as the traffic thinned, “are you in need of such an assiduous guard?”

  Her smile disappeared and she looked away. “It is Mama’s desire to protect me. That is why I was astonished she let me go on this ride without Templeton.”

  “Your mother trusts the contract drawn up between our solicitors. She knows the Pembrokes won’t renege on an agreement once they’ve given their word. What transpires between now and the wedding date does not unduly concern her.”

  “Since you are going to behave with absolute propriety, I suppose Mama’s trust is not misplaced,” she answered with a firmness she was far from feeling. When he gave her no such assurance, Gillian turned to study the scenery along the Kensington Road.

  She decided she would enjoy her outing and not let Lord Skylar’s unusual manner unsettle her. He was a gentleman, otherwise her mother would not have agreed to the match. She must believe that.

  When they arrived in the village of Kensington on the outskirts of London, he took her to a small tea garden set in the middle of pastures where cows grazed peacefully. Gillian looked about her in delight at the quaint establishment surrounded by flowering gardens. Small round tables covered in pretty linen tablecloths were set up both in the main dining room and out in the gardens.

  She readily agreed when he suggested they sit outside.

  “Mmm.” She inhaled the fragrance of moss roses, pinks and sweet pea growing in a profusion beside their table.

  He helped her into a chair, and a waitress brought her a glass of lemonade and a pot of tea for him. Sky asked her to bring them a selection of their cream-filled pastries.

  “What a charming place. I’ve never been here before.” Gillian looked at the man seated across from her, against the backdrop of flowers, the drone of bees and the twitter of birds. “It’s not the sort of place Mother would frequent.” Nor you, she added silently.

  “I’m glad it’s still around. I have scarcely had a chance yet to explore all my old haunts. My mother would bring me here as a boy when I was home on holiday. I used to dream of the syllabub made with their cream.”

  She eyed him, finding it hard to imagine this austere looking man clad in black ever being a little boy craving sweets.

  “These look scrumptious,” she said, preferring to turn her attention to the fruit tarts heaped with whipped cream the waitress set before them. She put one on her plate.

  “The place is famous for its cream and butter,” he explained, nodding to the cows grazing in the lawn beyond the garden. “I don’t know how much longer it will be around. Everyone prefers Vauxhall, from what I hear.”

  Her eyes lit up. “How I’d love to go there!”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You haven’t been? In all your three seasons?”

  “Mother thinks it vulgar. She believes it is only a place for the lower classes to go for their trysts.”

  He sat back, crossing his long legs, his fingers playing idly with a teaspoon. “Some would say the same thing of tea gardens. We have the place practically to ourselves. The lower classes must indeed all be at Vauxhall.”

  She looked around at the airy yet intimate surroundings. It did seem ideal as an out-of-the-way place to meet a sweetheart. Her thoughts went unbidden to other times, times she thought long dead and dormant, when she had been desperate for such a place. She turned her attention to the pastry in front of her. She was in a different position in life now. Older. Ready for a home of her own.

  She took a bite of the warm tart and savored its buttery crust and rich custard hidden by the sweet strawberries and fresh cream atop it.

  “You’re not having any?” she asked with a glance at his empty plate.

  He shook his head. “You go ahead.”

  “I should think you could use some of these pastries,” she commented, remembering her mother’s mention that he’d been ill.

  “Are you of the opinion as most that I am in need of ‘fattening up’?”

  “You are quite thin. Is that just natural or—or…” She hesitated.

  “Have I been ill?” he finished for her, taking a sip of his tea.

  “Mother mentioned something of it.”

  He nodded. “Yes. I was ill.” He did not elaborate. After a moment, he asked her, “Tell me, Lady Gillian, what do you expect from this marriage?”

  She washed the taste of strawberries and cream from her mouth with a swallow of lemonade and set down her glass, wondering at the directness of the question.

  When she didn’t answer right away, he said, “Come, you agreed to this arrangement between our parents. Despite all their interests in our union, I don’t believe your mother would force you against your will. You have seemed less than willing up to now.”

  “Well, that’s due solely to your—your somewhat less than gentlemanly manner.”

  “I was somewhat caught by surprise by my father’s announcement. I had no more stepped off the ship than he was insisting on my marriage. I beg your pardon if my manner has offended you. I was still adjusting to the notion of having my bride already picked out for me.”

  “You objected to the match?” she asked curiously. “You’ve reached your majority. Surely your father can’t make you marry someone you don’t know.”

  He leaned back in his chair and focused his gaze on a fat bumblebee hovering over the stalks of blue delphinium. “After considering all his persuasive arguments, I had to concede his point. I am not getting any younger. Edmund’s death taught us all that we can depart at any moment. Without an heir—” He shrugged. “Our estates are entailed. If I expire without leaving a male heir, all our lands pass to a cousin. The mere thought brings on an attack of gout to my poor sire.”

  “But wouldn’t you want to choose your own wife?”

  “I am afraid I have neither the inclination nor energy at this point in my life to sort through all the young ladies of marriageable age presently making their debut in society. The mere thought is both exhausting and
excruciatingly tedious.”

  “You certainly don’t believe in flattery,” she replied, not sure whether she should be insulted or amused at his description of the Marriage Mart.

  “Since most of the candidates would have been merely after my title and fortune, it makes things much simpler to select a young lady who is already possessed of these assets.”

  “But to marry a virtual stranger—” she began.

  He gave her a humorless smile. “My father is a philanderer, an inveterate gambler and, above all, a lover of pleasure. Whatever my opinion may be of his way of life, I cannot fault his taste in women. He is a connoisseur of the fairer gender.

  “When he promised I would be pleased with his choice, I could not but agree to have a look at you. He sang your praises. I can’t say you displease me, fair Lady Gillian.”

  Her name sounded like a caress in the softly pronounced syllables, his dark eyes appraising her.

  “Is he as good a judge of horseflesh?” she asked evenly, once again inclined to feel affronted.

  He looked amused. “He’s an excellent judge of horseflesh.”

  “Then I should be flattered.”

  He shrugged. “That’s up to you. I’m merely telling you that my father has an eye for beauty and the finer things of life.”

  She squirmed, feeling he could see things she had revealed to no one. When she didn’t answer right away, his tone gentled. “I have told you my reasons for agreeing to the match. Can you not confide something to me?”

  Not ready to do any such thing, she persisted with the topic. “If you have such confidence in your father’s opinion, why were you so ungracious the first evening we met?”

  He raised a dark eyebrow in inquiry.

  “Oh, come, my lord, you remember perfectly well how you behaved, looking me up and down as if I were a mare. Telling your father I’d do.”

  He smiled, his forefinger playing with the contours of his mouth. “That was not against you. My father and I, how shall I put it, don’t like to concede the other a point scored. I would no more admit to him he is right than I would wear a spotted waistcoat.”

  Not quite mollified, but beginning to understand him better, she nodded.

  “That still leaves why you acquiesced to your mother’s choice.” His soft tone intruded on her thoughts.

  “I want a home of my own,” she finally admitted, looking down at the doily under her glass.

  “A home of your own,” he answered, surprise edging the low timbre of his voice. “I would not consider you homeless.”

  “I want to be mistress of my own household.”

  “Well, you will have ample opportunity as the Countess of Skylar.”

  “It is what I have been trained to do. I know I would do it well.” She felt her face warm as she spoke the next words. “I want to have children of my own and bring them up. You are right when you say I am tired of playing the debutante. I would like my life to serve some purpose.”

  “I think we will suit,” he said finally. “I, too, want to run my father’s estates and prove I can manage them well. I need a wife for that. A good one. I want a woman I can trust. She may play hostess for me whenever she wants. I want to devote my time to my estates and to taking my seat in Lords. I can grace whatever parties she chooses to give, but I don’t intend to become caught up in the social whirl.

  “I expect my wife to remain faithful to me, as I will to her.”

  She met his gaze. His dark eyes seemed to be probing her, willing her to confess any tendency toward waywardness. Would they ferret out her past secrets or only demand future fidelity?

  She said nothing. He continued. “I will be frank with you, my lady. I have not led the life of a saint. I sowed my wild oats here in London before I was banished across the Atlantic.” A faint smile tinged his lips, though his tone was bitter.

  “In the Indies I dedicated myself to turning around a failing plantation. I have just ended a six-year relationship with a wealthy island widow. It was not a love union, merely a mutually agreeable arrangement. I left no illegitimate children behind.

  “Forgive my frankness to your maidenly ears. I do not wish to offend your sensibilities, but I want to make it clear I ended any entanglements and fully intend to honor my wedding vows once I take them. I expect my future wife to do the same. Do you understand me?”

  Her face had blanched at his unvarnished confessions. Did he expect the same of her? A complete disclosure of her past conduct?

  Perhaps with his confession, he was making it clear the past was behind him and he would behave differently as a husband. Her heart lightened. The past didn’t matter. She, too, intended to honor her wedding vows, despite her mother’s advice, no matter how distasteful they seemed to her at the moment.

  She swallowed. “Yes, I understand you. I, too, will—” she almost choked over the words “—honor our wedding vows.”

  He sat back, as if relieved some decision had been taken. “Good. I will tell my father to have the betrothal announced and the banns posted. We can discuss a date with your mother.”

  He raised his glass to hers. “Let us toast our future union.”

  She raised her glass slowly to his, keeping her eyes fixed on the two glasses, preferring not to meet Lord Skylar’s penetrating dark gaze.

  After that, as if deliberately seeking lighter topics of conversation, Lord Skylar took her for a stroll about the gardens. He spoke to her of the different plant life in the tropics. They drove back to London in the late afternoon. Gillian had long since put the serious part of their conversation out of her mind and focused on the enjoyment of the day. As they neared London once again, she felt a sense of regret that the outing would soon be over.

  She enjoyed watching Lord Skylar’s handling of the curricle, as she had her father. The two would have liked each other, she realized, and she felt a passing sadness that her father would not have the chance to meet her future husband.

  Lord Skylar turned to her. “Would you like to take a turn?” he asked offering her the reins. Her eyes widened. Most men were so proud of their skill with the ribbons and so protective of their precious vehicles and horses, they would never allow a female companion to try her hand. She smiled and nodded, taking the reins from him.

  She had her own low phaeton with its pair of ponies, but it had been a while since she’d handled a pair of horses. She kept the horses at a steady pace, glad they were still on the outskirts of the city. Lord Skylar seemed in no hurry to have the reins back. As the streets became more congested, he finally took them back.

  “You handle the ribbons well. Who taught you?”

  “My father. We often rode together.”

  “Do you know anything of horseflesh?”

  She nodded again, surprised anew.

  “Maybe I’ll take you to Tattersall’s with me. I’m looking to buy my own horse now I’m back in England. Everything in our stables is either Father’s or Edmund’s.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Gillian spied a movement on her side of the road. She craned her neck to see around the coach passing them at that moment.

  A dog dashed into the street to avoid a man’s whip. Without thinking, she grabbed Skylar’s arm. “Stop the carriage!”

  “What the—” he began, as his pair pranced at the sudden jerk to the reins. Not waiting to find out what she’d caused, Gillian jumped out of the curricle before it had come to a complete stop.

  “Lady Gillian!” She heard his sharp command, but she paid it no heed. She dodged traffic and ran toward the dog. Just before a coach ran it over, Gillian lunged at the dog and grabbed its neck.

  Hearing the neighing of horses almost on top of her, she dragged the dog back with her.

  “What are you thinking of doing, old fellow?” she crooned into its ear as her hands patted his neck, afraid to let it go. “You could have gotten yourself killed. We couldn’t have that. No indeed! There. You come back off the road with me.” As she reached the edge of the street, sh
e noticed the crowd around her. Astounded faces ringed her.

  “Miss, are you all right? You almost got run over. If the coachman hadn’t stopped in time—”

  Not removing her hand from the dog, still feeling its trembling beneath her fingertips, she realized the full extent of the situation. Coming from behind the onlookers was Lord Skylar, his jaw set.

  The crowd parted for him and he came straight to her.

  “Are you hurt?”

  She shook her head. Before he could say anything more, she turned to look for the man who had caused the commotion, as far as she was concerned. He stood behind a table, selling trinkets.

  She marched toward him. “How dare you, sir! Taking a whip to a poor, defenseless dog. You should be whipped yourself.”

  The man looked at her in astonishment. “Why—why, that cur’s been pestering me. It’s a worthless stray. Ought to be taken out of its misery.”

  Her outrage knew no bounds. “I’ll have you reported. I’ll see you—” Before she could utter her threat, she felt Lord Skylar’s hand on her arm.

  “The lady is understandably distressed with the near miss she had. Her nerves are overset—”

  She opened her mouth at Lord Skylar’s cool tone. “My nerves! I’ll show you nerves.” Wrenching her arm from his grasp, she went in search of the dog. She found him cowering behind a stack of crates. “Come on, boy. Don’t be afraid.” She petted him, crouching down to his level once again. “We’ll take you away from this place, from that awful brute…”

  “She means no disrespect,” she heard Skylar say to the vendor in a soothing tone. “Here, this should cover any damages. We’ll take the cur away from here.”

  Then he was standing over her. “We’d better remove ourselves from the premises if we want to avoid a riot. The man’s an unemployed soldier. He’ll soon have the crowd on his side.”

  “Come on, boy,” she coaxed the dog, her hand urging it forward. The dog was gazing at her with limpid brown eyes the color of topaz, and she fell in love with it.

  She gave a last outraged glance at the man with the stall and only then noticed his missing leg, and the crutch he leaned against. She shuddered and turned in search of the curricle.