Karen Harbaugh

by The Reluctant Cavalier

  “Do you truly think so ... Parsifal?”

  Her voice was sweet and gentle, her blue eyes wide and beautiful. His mouth felt dry, and he swallowed. He did not know how it could be, but the sound of his name on her lips did not grate on his ear as it did when he heard it from everyone else. He wanted to seize her, now, and kiss her lips to see if they tasted as sweet as they looked.

  He could not. She was a guest in his house, and she was alone with him, and his duty was to protect her from Sir Quentin, not use her for his own pleasure, especially since she was as good as betrothed to the Duke of Stratton.

  “Of course he would,” Parsifal said, his voice abrupt and harsh, even to his own ears. He rose from the bench. “Any man would. He’d be a fool, else.” He almost stepped away from her, wanting desperately to be away from Annabella and the despairing thoughts that came to him now that he knew about the duke’s proposal of marriage and her parents’ plans for her. But he remembered that she wanted to see the gardens, and that his true duty in being with her was to protect her. He turned and held out his hand to her. “Would you like to see the rest of the gardens?”

  She looked at him gravely for a moment, in silence. Then she smiled a smile of warm sweetness and took his hand.

  “Yes,” she said. “I would like that very much.”

  * * * *

  Annabella sat at the window seat of her room, looking out at the walled gardens beyond the stables. She could not see over the top of the walls from where she was, for the gardens were upon a little rise and their walls were too high, even from her vantage point. She wondered if Parsifal was in one of them, working. She clutched at the skirts of her dress, wrinkling them badly, but she did not care. Wrinkles were trivial things compared to her confused and troubled feelings.

  It had come upon her gradually, then burst upon her like the sun coming from behind the clouds on a rainy day. She had known it there in the garden with Mr. Parsifal Wentworth as she looked into his hazel eyes that held such warmth and kindness, as he held her hands with such strength and comfort in his own.

  She had fallen quite deeply in love with him.

  It was clear, now, when it had all started. She had formed a liking for him at the Bowerlands’ card party, for he was comely in his somewhat shabby and weather-worn way, and he had smiled at her with a sweetness she had never seen in a man before. Then he had squeezed her hand slightly when they entered the drawing room again, as if aware of her reluctance to encounter company again, and her heart had warmed to him for his understanding. But his kindness and generosity the night of her mother’s attack had strengthened her feelings, for he had been a solid, comforting presence, and the thought had come to her more than once that she would have liked to have laid her head upon his chest and felt his arms around her—-just for the comfort she would feel when she was so frightened, she had thought at the time, and had dismissed the images from her mind.

  But the aura of solidity and subtle strength that came from him kept luring her to think of him, time and time again. He was never vain or arrogant, as many of the men in London were. Indeed, he was overly modest, never putting himself forward in an attempt to be seen at an advantage. It was why she had thought the growing warmth she had been feeling for him was a sisterly one, the warmth of a friend for a friend.

  But then she had seen him without his shirt on, and while she had not been as shocked as she should be—she was honest enough about that at least—she found she could not think of Parsifal in a brotherly way at all after that.

  And then he had offered the exchange of his Christian name in return for hers, and had said it as if it had been a vow from his heart. She had looked into his eyes and had seen a deep hunger in him, as if he desired her and wanted to kiss her—and it had not frightened her, as it had when she had seen this from other men. Indeed, when he had held her hand in the garden, gently stroking her hand to give her comfort, she had felt comforted ... and oddly breathless. She had wanted him to kiss her quite desperately, and she blushed to think of it, even now.

  The chiming of the clock on the mantelpiece made her rise and ring for the maid, for it was time for supper and she needed to change her dress. She did not want to go down to supper, but wanted to be alone with her thoughts... but she knew she should not stay away. Many of the guests from the masquerade had stayed for a few days, and she knew she should not avoid them, despite her mother’s injury. The Duke of Stratton would be there, for he had been a guest at the masquerade, too. She did not want to see him, especially now that she knew she loved Parsifal, and not the duke.

  She must refuse the duke, of course ... but it would not be easy. What excuse could she give? Yes, she had fallen in love with Parsifal... but he had not claimed her hand, or even told her what he felt for her. What could she say to the duke or her parents? “Oh, yes, I must refuse the eminently eligible Duke of Stratton, for I have fallen in love with a man who might not wish me for his wife, or if he does, will not come forward”?

  She wished she had not told Parsifal of the duke’s proposal of marriage. Now, as a man of honor, Parsifal would be inclined to stay away from her, and she did not want this at all. He had spoken of how his feelings would never change—if he loved, that is. Could she hope that he had come to love her, not just desire her? She remembered how he had spoken harshly of the man she had fallen in love with—not knowing it was he, Parsifal, she had spoken of—and how he had said the man would be a fool who did not care for her after coming to know her.

  He cared for her—oh, she hoped he did! But she could not see how Parsifal could, in honor, propose to her or declare his love until he knew the duke released all claim on her. If she explained her feelings to the duke, perhaps he would understand. Surely, he could not wish to wed her when her heart belonged to another man? Annabella thought of the duke, his cool smile, his almost emotionless eyes. She was, suddenly, not so sure. He was also known to be a man used to getting what he wished and used to much deference to his rank.

  The maid entered, and Annabella chose a gown of white gauze with a satin slip and apple green piping along the low-cut bodice. The dress was long and trailed behind her in a slight train. It was the latest style from Paris, and she had asked for it especially when she had sent a servant to bring her and her mother’s clothes to Wentworth Abbey. She wondered if Parsifal would think her attractive in it and would be inclined, if they found themselves alone, to kiss her.

  She sighed. If only Parsifal were a less honorable man, or more impetuous . . . like the Cavalier. Annabella let out a distressed breath, almost a moan.

  “Miss, is there anything wrong?” the maid asked, pausing in tying the tapes of the dress.

  “No, no, it is nothing,” Annabella said, making herself smile at the maid.

  Nothing but heartbreak. For the Cavalier was another thing. She had not wanted to think of him; he made her feel confused. Was he real, or not? She had admitted to forming a tendre for the Cavalier to Parsifal. It was more than that, however. She hated herself for feeling it, but she knew she was also infatuated with the Cavalier. For all you know, he is nothing but a ghost! she scolded herself. To have fallen in love—no, it must be infatuation, surely—with a man she did not even know, was stupid in the extreme. It showed her a side of herself she did not like, and she suspected her parents were right, that she was turning into a flirt and worse, a jilt. She did not like what this said of her character—that she was nothing but a shallow woman, whose affections were neither deep nor true.

  How was it possible to care for more than one man? She knew what she loved in Parsifal: his kindness and his dependability, his gentleness and strength. But then there was the Cavalier, who was brave and audacious, a man of action and wit, and whose kisses made her feel as if she were wholly desirable to him.

  The maid finished putting up her hair, and Annabella nodded, satisfied, and slipped a shilling into the girl’s hand. The girl beamed and curtsied, then left.

  Annabella sighed, and proceeded d
own to the dining room. If Parsifal were to kiss her, would it change her feelings for the Cavalier? The thought of being in Parsifal’s arms, his lips touching hers, caused a strange warmth to curl up from her belly to her chest, making her breath come a little short. She wanted Parsifal to kiss her and tried to imagine it... and the image of the Cavalier flashed before her eyes, the strength of his arms around her, pulling her close—

  No! She pressed a hand to her temple, as if she could press down the confusion in her mind. The duke, Parsifal, the Cavalier—what was she to do? She wanted to be a dutiful daughter, she wanted the warmth and comfort and tenderness of Parsifal, and she wanted the wildness and audacity of the Cavalier.

  She wanted not to think of any of it right now. Two months were left to her, two months in which she could decide. In that time she could come to know both the duke and Parsifal better—and perhaps even the Cavalier if he appeared again.

  And, surely, she could consult her mother. Mama would understand and give her the best advice. She always had, in the past. Annabella smiled, feeling a little relieved. Perhaps Mama would even advise refusing the duke and say she should wait for Parsifal. Annabella slowed her steps. She could never suggest the Cavalier as a possible suitor—she did not even know his name, after all. No, it would be better if she tried to forget him, and decide between the duke and Parsifal.

  A distant clock tolled the half hour. She had dressed quickly and would still have ample time to see her mother. Annabella turned and went back up the hall to her mother’s room. Surely, her mother could help her sort out her confusion, and then she would know what to do.

  * * * *

  Lady Smith turned her eyes away from the window and pressed her fist against her lips. The landscape, the window, the room—they wavered before her eyes, and every movement of her head made her feel dizzy and nauseated. She felt much worse than she had revealed to Annabella, but it would do no good for the girl to know it. Poor child! Her daughter had been in paroxysms of guilt and anguish because of the attack and injury, but there was nothing the girl could do to help, of course, however much she wished to. Time—and Doctor Robinson’s draughts—would do the work. It was better if Annabella spent her time occupied in other things than worrying about her mother when she could do nothing, after all.

  She sighed. She wished the remedies would work faster, however. Her head still ached, her foot pained her, and tired as she was, she found it difficult to sleep. As a result, she felt snappish and irritable, things she detested feeling. Perhaps if she took the laudanum—though she hated taking it—it would enable her to sleep better.

  A knock sounded on the door, and she almost groaned. She did not want company right now, not even a maid. All she wanted was to be left alone to sleep. She sighed again. One last caller, then. Perhaps it was Annabella, come to see her briefly before she went down to supper.

  “Come in,” she said.

  It was indeed Annabella, and her heart lifted to see her. Her daughter never failed to bring some bit of joy to her, no matter how badly she felt. She extended her hand to Annabella and smiled at her.

  “Annabella, my love! How pretty you look! I am glad we ordered that dress made that time your father went to Paris. I had thought it rather daring at the time, but you are a woman grown, and such dresses are now all the rage, it seems!”

  Annabella smiled in return and took her mother’s hand in hers, raising it to her cheek affectionately. “Your instincts for style have always been excellent, Mama. It is why I always come to you for advice in these things.”

  “You are a good girl, Annabella,” Lady Smith said, patting her daughter’s cheek.

  A guilty look flashed across Annabella’s face, then she grimaced. Lady Smith sighed and shifted in the bed, wishing she could feel more comfortable.

  “What is it, Annabella? I know that look. You have done something you think you ought not... and you need to tell me of it, is that it?”

  Her daughter smiled, obviously relieved, and Lady Smith repressed another sigh. If she did not feel so ill, she would welcome a talk with Annabella. But she did not feel well at all and did not wish to hear some confession that she’d much rather not deal with right now. She tamped down her impatience. Her daughter needed her. She patted Annabella’s hand. “What is it, my dear?”

  There was silence as Annabella sat on a chair next to the bed and bit her lip. She stared down at her lap at first, wringing her hands a little, then looked up at her mother, her eyes a little frightened.

  “I have fallen in love, Mama,” she blurted.

  Joy rose in Lady Smith’s heart. It was what she wished for her, to love and be loved as she herself was in her own marriage. “How wonderful! Well, I suppose you do not need to wait the next four weeks, do you? I am sure the duke would be very happy to hear your decision!”

  A low, whispering groan came from Annabella, and Lady Smith stared at the guilt and misery in her face. A feeling of dread crept into her ... dear Lord, not another complication!

  “What is the matter, my dear?” she asked.

  “Mama, it... it is not the duke with whom I have fallen in love.”

  “Oh, heavens.” Lady Smith could feel the irritation rising in her and tried to dismiss it, for this was important, and she needed to listen carefully to her daughter. “And with whom have you fallen in love?”

  Annabella drew in a deep breath. “It is with Mr. Wentworth.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sakes, Annabella!” Lady Smith snapped. “How long have you known this young man? Hardly a week! How can you be in love with him?” She regretted her words and her tone as soon as she spoke, for Annabella’s face turned red and her expression, wretched. Lady Smith reined in her temper, took in a deep breath, and spoke more calmly. “My dear, how did this come about? Did he use sweet words to persuade you? Did vow his love, or seduce you?”

  Annabella let out a short laugh and raised tear-filled eyes to her mother. “No, oh, no. He did none of those things. He has been the perfect gentleman, always polite and kind, never pressing his attentions upon me or putting himself forward—quite the contrary! But I have come to know him from being in his company so much. He ... he takes his duties as host and his role as my protector since your injury very seriously. He insists on having a servant with me at all times, unless he is with me, and sometimes even then. You may be sure I am as well protected as the Crown Jewels!”

  Lady Smith looked at her skeptically. “You have told me that you were in no danger of forming a tendre for him not long ago, but now you say you love him! How can this be?”

  “It is what I thought, for he did not act like the gentlemen in London who always put themselves forward, and I felt so comfortable with him, I thought it was a sisterly feeling. I have never been in love with anyone before, Mama! How can I tell? All I know is that I feel so safe with him, and cherished, as if I were a precious thing ... and that I wish he were not so proper, that he would say something, anything, about what he feels for me.”

  “Oh, Annabella!” her mother groaned. “I think this is an infatuation—you do not even know if he cares for you!”

  “And if he does, how can he say so? He knows that the duke has proposed marriage to me, and that I have not given an answer.”

  “No doubt Mr. Wentworth has advised you to refuse the duke?” Lady Smith asked, her irritation growing.

  “No, he has not. Indeed, when I asked him what I should do, he merely said he could not tell me, and that he could only advise that I should seriously consider whether my affections would change toward the duke.”

  “Hmph. It was right and proper that he should advise you so. I will give him that.” Lady Smith felt a growing respect for Mr. Wentworth. He was certainly not the catch that the Duke of Stratton was for her daughter, but he was a sensible, and it seemed, an honorable man. But how vexatious that Annabella should fancy herself in love with him! It would be awkward, very awkward indeed, to explain this to the duke or to Sir Robert, for that matter.

/>   Ah, what was she thinking? Lady Smith pressed her hand to her aching head. Annabella was no doubt doing the same thing she had done with her past suitors, putting them off because of some silly scruple. And for what? A young man whose affections she was not even sure of, who had not even spoken of his feelings, much less spoken to Lady Smith or to Sir Robert of any desire to marry Annabella. It was a feeble excuse to refuse the duke, to be sure!

  She gazed at her daughter’s anxious face, full of hope and fear. What should she say? It wanted two months until Annabella must give the duke his answer. Two weeks of it would no doubt be spent here, at Wentworth Abbey, and there was little chance that Annabella could avoid Mr. Wentworth while they were here. Lady Smith had received a missive from her husband, full of frustration that he could not come to them and take them home right away. He could not reveal what troubles he was encountering in his diplomatic endeavors, but she knew all was not easy with France. Of course, he could not abandon his duties to his country, especially when he had received a long and very sensible letter from Mr. Wentworth explaining the situation. Lady Smith felt a distinct irritation regarding Mr. Wentworth. If only he were as dissolute and irresponsible as his older brother! Then she could very easily warn Annabella against him, and with good reason.

  No, she could not forbid Annabella to associate with Mr. Wentworth. There would be two weeks in which her daughter would come to know Mr. Wentworth better, and when they returned home, she had a month and a half in which to know the duke better. Surely, she would see, in that time, that the duke would make a superior husband! There was no comparison between the two. No, she would be wise not to press the matter and feed Annabella’s incipient rebellion.

  She sighed and smoothed a stray lock from Annabella’s forehead. “My dear, you have two months before you must give the duke your answer. Two weeks of that time you must stay in this house. It is only fair that you give these men an equal chance at your affections, is it not? The first two weeks you may be with Mr. Wentworth all you wish. But when we return home, you must allow yourself to know the duke better than you do now. You see, I am not denying your assertion that you love Mr. Wentworth. All I am asking—and I am supported in this by Mr. Wentworth from what you have told me—that you let yourself see if your affections change. Is that too much to ask?”