Dair Devil

by Lucinda Brant

  Rory took her place at the table, tucking her stockinged feet under her cotton petticoats, and gratefully drank the cider.

  “Are you lodging at the dower house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not up at the big house with their Graces?”

  Dair went about filling a plate with a variety of what was on offer on the table.

  “Roxton is an excellent host, and he still owns me as family, despite my despicable behavior at the regatta. But we are barely on speaking terms.” He passed her the laden plate, holding her gaze. “And, it is but a short stroll from here to the Gatehouse Lodge, and you…”

  Rory felt her face grow hot and she smiled unconsciously. His admission of staying at her godmother’s house to be close to her made her tingle all over, and she could not have been happier. Yet, she remained pensive at his mention of the regatta. That had been held on the estate two months ago. Rory remembered the boat race well indeed. How could she, or any other guest forget that day?

  During the boat race, one of the Duke’s five-year-old twin sons fell out of a skiff into the lake and almost drowned. His little life was saved by the efforts of the Duke of Kinross. The race had all but been abandoned. Yet, the Major had rowed on and won the race, to great fanfare and bravado on his part. The Roxtons remained tight-lipped about the entire incident. And as no one could believe a war hero capable of ignoring a plea for help, there had to be a perfectly reasonable explanation as to why the Major had rowed on to win the race.

  Rory might not know the reason behind Dair’s behavior but she believed she had more insight than most into the episode. The best vantage point to see the boat race was from a marquee pitched at the highest point of the rolling lawn. And here Rory watched the Major cross the finish line under the arch of the stone bridge, the first of three boats to complete the race. And while the unwitting crowd cheered widely to have a victor, Rory caught sight of two more boats close together, making slow progress towards the bridge, clearly no longer competing. It was only much later that she came to hear of the near tragedy on the lake. But before that, before the shocking incident became general knowledge, the Major and his party of followers, including a clutch of young beauties hanging on every word the dashing Major uttered, burst into her tent in search of refreshments.

  The Major was in fine voice and fine form. He had an arm about Mr. Cedric Pleasant’s neck, not because he required his friend’s support to remain upright after such physical exertion, but as an affectionate acknowledgement of Mr. Pleasant’s backing him to win. Recounting the finer points of the race with his boon companions, Rory was certain the adoring females in his party, particularly the Aubrey twins—two sylph-like beauties with large brown eyes—heard only one word in ten, too preoccupied, as Rory was herself, in admiring the Major’s handsome and powerful physique. His head of unruly black hair fell damp across his brow and into his eyes. The usual billowy linen shirt was wet through and thus adhered to every muscle of his torso; likewise, his clingingly tight cream breeches, displaying to advantage the contours of his taut thighs.

  Rory resorted to fluttering her fan, suddenly giddy to be in close quarters with such potent masculinity, and because the space within the marquee was suddenly hot and heavy, crammed as it now was with an audience eager to be part of the Major’s victory celebrations. When Mr. Pleasant shoved a jug of ale into the Major’s hand, it was downed in one gulp, and to appreciative shouts of encouragement. Finally, the Major was swallowed up by the crowd of admirers, leaving Rory looking up from her chair at the backs of frock coats, and the intricate rumpled creations of the ladies’ polonaise petticoats.

  Ignored and feeling invisible, Rory snatched up her stick, eager to seek fresh air and solace on the lawn. But it was no easy task for her to rise from her chair. She was hemmed in by a crowd too caught up in the moment. But not five minutes later the crowd parted, to allow the Major, a footman at his shoulder, to move to the back of the marquee. He stopped short of Rory’s chair, gaze fixed at some point over her head, unaware she was there. Here, the footman shrugged him into his embroidered silk waistcoat.

  Rory’s gaze never wavered from his face. She, who always sat in her quiet corner, the observer but never the observed, saw what others could not, and what he did not want others to see. The moment he turned his back on everyone else, the devil-may-care mask he wore in public fell away. Gone was the twinkle in his eye, and the self-assured grin. His face dropped with sheer relief—from what, she had no idea, but it was as if he had been given a task he was sure he would fail, only to miraculously do well. He took a deep breath and briefly closed his eyes, perhaps in thanks for having come through what surely must have been quite an ordeal, gauging by the extent of the reprieve writ large on his handsome features.

  Rory instinctively knew it had everything to do with the boat race, just as she knew now, as she sat across from him in the shade of the pavilion, he wished to confide in her. So she took her time to formulate her words, pulling at the soft center of the chunk of bread on her plate. She ate it before saying, as conversationally as she could muster, a flicker of a glance across the squat table where he sat cross-legged on the cushions, piling a slab of bread with slices of beef,

  “You gave quite a performance at the regatta…”

  “Performance? Ha! It was one of my best. It had to be or I was destined for failure. But the word failure is not in my lexicon. So from the moment I stepped onto that jetty and into the skiff, until I stepped out of it over the finish line, I put in the performance of my life. I am relieved I don’t remember any of it—the rowing; what happened during the race; the shouts of encouragement from the shoreline. I looked neither left nor right, and I did not stop, for anything or anyone. I cannot…”

  “So you rowed on when others may have needed your help?”

  “Yes. But my brother assured me my help was not needed.”

  “Surely you would have stopped had they shouted for your assistance?”

  “Truthfully?” He held her gaze, despite feeling the heat suddenly burning his throat. He wondered if it was possible to see a man’s blush under a full beard. “I cannot answer that. I just rowed like bloody hell, determined to cross the finish line and get to dry land in the shortest time possible.”

  “You could have declined to enter the race,” she said, then immediately answered her own question. “No. Of course you wouldn’t. Dair Fitzstuart does not refuse a wager. If he did, that would be strange indeed, and your friends would ask questions…”

  “Yes… I have small consolation in knowing I was too far ahead in the race to be of any use had I been called back; so Charles confided. Little Louis was overboard and sinking fast and Kinross dived in and had him rescued before even Charles or Roxton had time to react.”

  Rory continued to tug at the bread without eating it, leaving a hollowed crusty shell and a pile of crumbs on her plate.

  “I believe that had your brother called out to you, you would have instinctively gone to his aid, all other considerations secondary.”

  “Thank you for your belief. It means the world to me…”

  She smiled shyly at such praise, but did not drop her gaze from his.

  “You gave no thought to your own safety when you rescued that family from the battlefield at Brooklyn Heights, did you?”

  “Battle is different. I know how to handle myself and my men on a battlefield. And that was on terra firma.”

  “But surely in battle your primary goal is to secure victory at all costs?”

  Dair gave a lopsided grin. “We may not have secured victory recently, but victory was ours in the Long Island campaign. Washington and his rebels would have been captured, too, had they not slunk away in the middle of the night.”

  “But near the Jamaica Pass you rescued a woman and her two children from a burning house; a house deliberately lit by colonial militia believing the woman was harboring the King’s general. The rebels gave no thought to sacrificing those lives if it meant
they could flush out and secure the bigger prize of General Clinton. And yet you went into a burning building, with musket fire all around you, and the enemy at close quarters, and saved not only those three lives, but the General’s life, too.”

  “I see you keep abreast of the war in the Colonies, and read the newssheet reports on that little skirmish,” he replied with a self-effacing smile. “But no mention was made in those reports of General Sir Henry Clinton’s capture. To do so would not have been good for public morale.”

  Rory lost the furrow between her brows as her blue eyes widened and she mouthed the word “Oh”. When Dair mimicked her actions, she dimpled and confessed.

  “As the Spymaster’s granddaughter I am privy to some tid-bits not generally known to the public. Of course, I would never reveal my sources, but you are in my grandfather’s confidence, too, so I do not feel if I have betrayed anyone.”

  “Rory, you do realize there are those on both sides of any conflict who would not think twice in using innocent lives as a means to an end?”

  He was thinking specifically of Lord Shrewsbury. But he would never mention him by name to her, and shatter her loving view of her grandfather. Lord Shrewsbury was a cunning and ruthless Spymaster General, with no conscience when it came to winning at all costs. For him, any price was worth it. Not for Dair. Children were innocent regardless of the actions of their parents, and sometimes in spite of them. Enough of a reason why he could never take Shrewsbury’s place, and would decline the offer if it were made to him. But that conversation was for another day, and with his mentor. He pushed aside his plate, saying flatly, “You may find this hard to believe, but not all women are innocent bystanders of war.”

  “Oh, I do not find that hard to believe at all,” Rory contradicted earnestly. “Our sex does not preclude us from taking sides in a conflict, and acting upon our convictions.”

  “The husband of the woman I saved was a rebel, but she was not. She was a loyalist and a spy for us. I had to save her. I could not let her fall into enemy hands. She knew too much. But that is not why I saved her. I could not deprive her children of their mother.”

  “Of course you could not,” Rory replied with a smile. But then her brow furrowed. “If my husband was a rebel soldier, or one of the King’s men, I could not betray him by being a spy for his enemies. I would support him, help him in any way I could. Isn’t that the nature of marriage? To be supportive of one another in good times and bad?”

  “But what if you did not believe in his cause?”

  Rory gave a little laugh of incredulity at the very idea.

  “Silly. Why would I marry a man whose cause I did not believe in? I should hope that before we married we would know each other well enough, love each other enough, esteem one another, that the ceremony is but a formality. There would be no surprises, no uncertainties. We would be in accord, if not in all things, but certainly in matters of great importance to our union. If this not be the case, well, I-I—I might as well marry a bedpost!”

  Dair had it on the tip of his tongue to quip that marriage to a bedpost was preferable to marriage with Mr. William Watkins, but he had no wish to spoil their tête-à-tête by mentioning the Weasel, so he said as casually as he could manage,

  “So what does Miss Talbot consider of prime importance in a marriage?”

  Rory shrugged and lifted a hand in a gesture that suggested the answer was self-evident.

  “Love. Respect. Friendship. Honesty. Trust…”

  “Physical compatibility?”

  “Of course. Surely it follows that if there is love, respect, friendship, honesty and trust in a marriage, there will also be physical compatibility?”

  His lips twitched into a brief smile.

  “There can be physical compatibility without marriage…”

  Rory’s face flooded with color, with embarrassment, and anger. His smugness and that twitch annoyed her, and more than it should.

  “That is something different entirely. That is like-like—stealing food from another man’s table!” she said in an angry rush. “It may satisfy a temporary need but at what cost to self-esteem and the guilt that follows? Such couplings are surely unsatisfactory for they lack the qualities I spoke of that make physical love between husband and wife so satisfying. While I am well aware men have mistresses and females take lovers, I could never betray my husband in that base way. For him to take a mistress…” She took a deep breath, aware she had said more than she should, and stole a look at him, up into his eyes to see if he was laughing at her, for her naïve pronouncements about a matter in which she had no experience. “If my husband were unfaithful, then it stands to reason that those qualities that first brought us together no longer existed. I could not remain married to such a man.”

  “But there is no way out of a marriage for a female.”

  Rory held his gaze.

  “Hence the importance of making the right choice, or no choice at all, before marriage. Though why we are speaking of marriage, I do not know, because I am completely witless on that subject and-and of-of—anything else. Thus my opinion is worthless—”

  “No, that is not true. Your opinion matters, it matters a great deal—to me. I apologize for making you uncomfortable. I merely wished to express the idea that while it is possible to have physical compatibility outside of marriage, it is impossible for a marriage to flourish if physical compatibility is not present. But I take your point. If love, respect, honesty, trust and friendship exist, then there is no reason why a husband and wife should not enjoy physical intimacy. And if they do not, then surely the fault lies with the husband, who is the experienced partner. Although, in some rare instances, both parties may be ignorant—”

  “Surely not?” Rory found the notion absurd, particularly in present company. But when Dair did not disabuse her, she lost her incredulous smile, wondering to whom he was referring, for he must have some one or some couple in mind. “Then should not both parties work equally at finding a solution to their—to their—conundrum?”

  He laughed out loud. “Conundrum? Oh, Delight, I do so love your choice of words! Conundrum. A perfect euphemism!”

  His laughter was infectious. She giggled and was about to make an inappropriate quip when they were interrupted by what sounded like a wounded mouse. It made her lose her train of thought and look over at her maid, for that was where the noise had emanated. But there was no mouse, no small wounded animal at all. Just Edith, sitting tall, with her hands grasped tightly in the lap of her gown, eyes wide and staring at Rory, mouth shut tight, so tight the tendons in her neck were visible.

  With her ear to the conversation, every word marched the couple toward an intimacy that was inappropriate between a bachelor and a spinster. And when talk turned to the wholly inappropriate topic regarding the intimate relations between a husband and wife, and then onwards to the scandalous notion of lovemaking outside the vows of marriage, Edith was unable to hold herself in check any longer. But instead of ending such inappropriate talk with the excuse it was time to return to the Gatehouse Lodge, and pointing to the pony and trap awaiting them under the shade of the large spreading Linden tree across the rolling lawn from the pavilion, she expressed her disapproval in a most unintentional manner. All her suppressed words came out from between her lips in a thin high-pitched squeal of alarm that sounded as if a mouse had been pounced on by a cat, or, to Dair’s ears, that of a cat’s tail caught between sill and window sash.

  Yet, the noise had the desired effect of bringing the couple to a sense of their surroundings. And while it highlighted the unsuitability of their conversation, it did more to make them aware of how comfortable they were in each other’s company. This was evidenced when Rory glanced at Dair from under her lashes and he winked at her. They exchanged a conspiratorial smile, as if caught out collaborating in something utterly wicked. Still, they respected the maid’s unspoken edict, and dutifully turned their attention to their respective plates and the food on offer. They consumed
the rest of their meal in silence, Rory picking at her food while Dair ate ravenously, as always. She wondered if large vigorous males had bottomless pits for stomachs. Despite the swim in the lake giving her an appetite, with him, she was now curiously not hungry at all. When he drank down a tumbler of pear cider and refilled hers, she asked in a whisper,

  “Why must you row like-like—bloody hell?”

  He gave an involuntary smile at her hesitancy to swear and had an overwhelming urge to leap across the table and kiss her lovely mouth. He curbed this desire and finished off the rest of the bread piled with slices of beef and smothered in chutney, saying when he was replete,

  “You won’t believe me—No, that is not true. You, more than any other, will believe me, because you see through the performance. You see me, do you not, Delight?”

  She nodded and extended her hand across the table between the empty plates and dishes, hoping Edith had returned to her needlework, for if her maid had considered the table conversation inappropriate she would surely disapprove of the couple holding hands. But Rory was beyond caring what her maid or anyone else thought. She was lightheaded with happiness, but perhaps that was because she had not eaten? No! Surely this was how people felt when they were in love? Lightheaded, unable to eat, so full of joy they wanted to run out onto the lawn and share their feelings with the world. And she knew it was so when he entwined his fingers with hers, and a warm sensation not unlike pins and needles—she did not know how else to describe it—flooded up her arm, invaded her body and settled in her chest. It was as if she were suddenly immersed in a bathtub full of warm fragrant water. But it was when he smiled into her eyes and made his frank admission that she knew in her heart that he felt as she did.

  “How is it I did not see you until recently?” he asked with a note of wonder. “How could I have been so blind…?” He shook his head at his own amazement, and grinned sheepishly. “I am not the most perceptive of men, particularly when I am inhabiting the guise Society expects of me. You said yourself I am a fine actor. I am good at hiding my true self and intentions from others. A spy must be an expert at disguise, in feelings as well as form.” He rubbed his cheek then his ear lobe between thumb and forefinger. “I grow a beard, put in a gold earring, tie a red kerchief about my neck, and I can walk amongst the natives of Portugal as a privateer, undetected and unbothered. I have worn the uniforms of my enemies, faced battle for His Majesty as a dragoon without fear… Yet, when it comes to rowing, or swimming in blackened water where reeds grow thick and strong—” He leaned into the table, smile gone, and not wanting to be overheard, “I am—I am a-a coward.”