Brandon, calling that afternoon to see how she fared, insisted on escorting her to the mail coach the following day.
It was a cool day, the weather insistently overcast, which matched Letty’s mood, as they stood together outside the Peacock Inn in the busy Islington street while the mail coach was loaded up for the journey north.
Brandon’s eyes darkened. “I’m sorry it’s worked out like this. You should have enjoyed your time in London, and I regret the part I played in ruining it.”
“I can hardly blame you for that,” she said with a forced smile. She’d been cheerful on the way here in his curricle, having decided whilst lying awake during the night to hide the awful hollowness she suffered at leaving him. “Please thank the Willards again for me, especially Mrs. Willard who was such a dear.”
While emotional farewells went on in the crowd all around them, he slipped his arms around her waist, which quite destroyed her plan to leave him composed and seemingly unmoved. The very thought that she would never see him again sent a bolt of ice straight to her heart. Hot tears scaled her eyes, and she blinked them away.
His hand moved softly over her back. “After all we’ve been through together, let us not part as polite strangers,” he murmured. He kissed her cheek, then, with a sharp intake of breath, his lips found hers, soft, and firm, sending fire dancing along her veins. She feared she would crumple in his arms, but he drew away, his eyes betraying his emotion, if his words did not. “I wish you a wonderful life, Letty.”
“Don’t be too brave in Paris,” she said urgently.
“I won’t.” His eyes darkened. “I’ll be dueling with words, Letty, not swords.”
“Yes,” she whispered, not believing him. “You did say it was a diplomatic posting.”
“Don’t compromise on your dreams, Letty. Remember Aunt Lydia,” he urged.
Before more could be said, she was called to the coach by the driver.
As she took her seat beside an elderly gentleman, she turned to the window for a last glimpse of Brandon where he stood on the pavement with a hand raised in farewell. The imprint of Brandon’s mouth lingered on her lips long after the coach had turned a corner. She ran a tongue over her bottom lip. Brandon cared for her, maybe even loved her. But not enough to give up his way of life. And had he asked her to marry him, she would have feared for their future together. The pain of losing her father and mother had never left her, and to suffer the loss of a beloved husband would destroy her peace forever. She tamped down a sigh, becoming aware of the scrutiny of the three people sharing the coach.
As she was carried back to Hawkshead village, she thought over her time in London, from her first experience with Aunt Edith right to the distressing conclusion. She was not looking forward to facing her uncle and aunt with what had occurred. She would struggle to find words to explain it when there was so much she couldn’t say. Although a blatant lie did not sit well with her, she finally decided on the brief account of Arietta’s sad end that Mr. Willard had instructed her to say.
As the miles passed by, it was the vision of Arietta’s pale body entwined with that of the swarthy Frenchman’s, which seemed to stay with her, the bedchamber filled with their moans and murmured declarations of love. She hadn’t had much idea of what occurred between men and women, although growing up in the country, you were familiar with the mating of animals. The passion expressed by the two lovers was so sensual and exciting, and when she thought of the act in terms of her own possible future, it was Brandon taking her in his arms; Brandon sending her pulse racing. She couldn’t imagine any other man being on such intimate terms with her. She only hoped that time would lessen her memory of the warmth of his blue eyes, the sound of his voice, and the way his very presence seemed embedded in her soul.
But he didn’t want her. He would soon forget her as he sailed for France, his mind on the Paris assignment. Could she believe him when he’d said it was not dangerous? She simply must for her sanity’s sake.
“Are you returning home, miss?” The middle-aged lady opposite smiled at her as she took out her knitting.
“Yes.” Letty gave an answering smile. Home? There was some comfort in the thought of their quiet village where one could be fairly confident that each day passed like another.
“I hope you’re not too sad,” the woman said, her fingers flying over the needles as she settled in for a chat.
“Perhaps a little.” Her distress must be obvious. Writ large on her face, she supposed. Letty didn’t have the strength to pretend otherwise. She didn’t want to talk, she’d rather have a good cry before she reached home. But the lady’s bright eyes observed her, and it appeared Letty would be denied the opportunity.
“Leaving your young man behind?” The lady nudged the cleric seated beside her. “Such a good-looking, robust fellow he was, too.” She cast Letty a hopeful glance. “Will he be coming after you, miss?”
The elderly gentleman sitting next to Letty gave an impatient rattle of his newspaper.
Letty smiled and shook her head. She must not allow herself to dream of such a possibility, not for a moment.
Brandon watched the mail coach until it was out of sight. So, she was gone. Home to marry some fellow, he supposed. While he found it hard to accept that she would marry, he fervently hoped it wasn’t Geoffrey, Letty should have passion in her life, not settle for friendship. Nor Delridge, who was probably too fond of London to travel all the way to Cumbria. Brandon groaned softly. Shouldn’t have hugged her, certainly shouldn’t have kissed her, but he needed to hold on to some memory of her. Her slim body in his arms, how her soft lips opened beneath his, drawing a response from him that he struggled to dismiss. He walked down the street to where his curricle awaited, the horses held by his groom, while admitting that London had soured for him. He’d be glad to get away for a time.
Hove awaited his instructions. The packing of Brandon’s trunk had become a matter of great importance since his valet learned he was to accompany him to Paris. He was enveloped in a fever of organization, which Brandon would prefer to avoid if he could. While Hove considered Paris to be deplorably overflowing with the French, a voluble lot who had no sense of decorum, the gentlemen were well-dressed. And as Brandon’s valet, he expressed the view that he would see to it that his master was turned out in the epitome of good taste.
His valet fussed about the bedchamber and dressing room seeking direction from Brandon who attempted to read the newspaper in the adjoining sitting room, his unsettled mind refusing to take in either Hove or the news articles. Instead, he could only think of Letty, her face at the window as the mail coach took her away.
“Does sir wish to take his undercover gear? Might two dozen neck cloths suffice? Who knows what the laundry service is like in those hotels? Have they heard of starch? Does sir want the carmelite brown coat? Sir has never expressed much fondness for it. But if left behind, it would mean abandoning the bronze silk waistcoat, which didn’t look well with the blue coat. Might the gray greatcoat with the four capes be too warm for a French summer?” And so on, until Brandon ordered him to surprise him, folded his newspaper, and quit the room, taking his thoughts of Letty with him.
The next day, they sailed for France.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hawkshead Village, Cumbria
Six weeks later
Geoffrey shepherded Letty from the dance floor. “Shall I fetch you a glass of ratafia?”
“No, lemonade please. It is dreadfully hot.” Letty employed her fan vigorously, the assembly rooms were crammed with guests tonight, all of whom she knew. How unlike London. One could depend on these people to behave more or less in the same manner from day to day, week to week, and month to month. She should be grateful for that, but found perversely that she wasn’t.
Mrs. Crosby passed her with a knowing nod. Everyone anticipated she and Geoffrey would soon marry because one did not often surprise the village by doing something completely unexpected. Not since Mrs. Downer, the banker�
�s wife, ran away with the young man who worked in accounts. That happened some years ago and was still spoken of.
Brandon’s life in Paris must be so different to hers. Her thoughts turned unwillingly to him again, along with that hollow sense of yearning. She tried to be patient, to wait until the memories of her time in London, the thrilling and the glamorous, along with the dangerous, and the eventual wretchedness, had lost its hold over her. But it took far too long. She smiled at Geoffrey, while struggling with the guilty knowledge that she was unworthy of him, and any other suitor. She wanted Geoffrey to be happy, and she feared he wouldn’t be if married to her.
Letty waved to the widow, Anne Wilson, as she walked past in a pretty lavender dress. “Mrs. Wilson has cast off her mourning clothes,” Letty said to Geoffrey. “She looks quite lovely tonight, doesn’t she?”
Geoffrey handed Letty the glass of lemonade. “Eh?” His eyes narrowed. “What are you suggesting? That Anne Wilson and I should be more than acquaintances?”
“No, for I know you won’t allow it. I suspect she would like it to be so, however.” Anne had been widowed after Timothy Wilson died in a wagon accident two years ago. “Anne is too young to be a widow. She is the same age as you.”
“There is nothing between Anne and me. If you are trying to dissuade me from declaring myself, I should like to know why.”
“No, but you wished to marry her, until your parents expressed their disapproval because her father owned the haberdashery,” Letty persisted. “Anne accused you of not fighting for her. And then she gave you up and married Timothy.”
Geoffrey glared at her over the top of his wine glass. “You are accusing me of being spineless.”
“It’s hard to oppose one’s parents when we are young. We wish to please them. But broken hearts are not easily mended.”
“Broken hearts? You have not lost your sense of romance, I see.”
Letty sighed. “I just don’t believe you really want to marry me,” she said, lowering her voice. “My uncle and your father are behind this. They’ve put their heads together.”
“Perhaps they have, but I’m well past my majority. They cannot tell me what to do if I don’t wish to do it. Not anymore, Letty.”
He sat beside her. “Don’t you want to marry me? When you came home without a beau, I hoped you might prefer me to one of those cynical, aimless London fellows who choose to do nothing but gamble and visit their tailor.” He eyed her. “You have been acting strangely. Not at all like yourself. Was there someone down south you came to care for?”
“I suppose my time in London has changed me,” Letty admitted. She was different, of course. No longer the eager, uncomplicated country girl who went to London.
“What did happen there? You’ve told me little, apart from being forced to return because you lost your chaperone to illness.”
“I could hardly remain in London after Lady Arietta died,” she said, horrified by the lies she’d been forced to tell. After a summons from Whitehall, Uncle Alford had left on the mail coach, returning later in the week shocked to learn of Lady Arietta’s alliance with the French. His lips were sealed. He declared he had been sworn to secrecy and kept rigidly to it although Aunt Edith did try to discover more from Letty when he was gone from the room.
“We’ll enjoy a good life together,” Geoffrey said, breaking into her thoughts. “You were restless before you left, and I didn’t think I had a chance. But you’re more settled now. We’ll work together, we both share a love of the land and horses. Both Mama and the squire would be delighted with the match. They are both fond of you.”
“Yes, and I’m fond of them. Aunt Edith is forever urging me to marry you.”
“Well? What prevents you? Can you tell me? It doesn’t matter if you don’t love me, Letty. That isn’t always a good basis for marriage.”
“You sound like my uncle,” she said.
“A man of considerable wisdom,” Geoffrey said with a smile.
His similarity to her uncle failed to fill her with confidence. Did Geoffrey love her? He hadn’t said the words. Surely one of them should feel love for the other? Letty suddenly feared she would cry. She could not go on like this. Was she to become a melancholy old maid? Better, surely to marry her best friend, instead. Although the idea of marriage to Geoffrey failed to make her heart beat fast, it began to seem right, because it gave her a sense of purpose. A future. She was interested in the same things as he was. Might she make him a good wife?
“I’ll give you your answer soon, Geoffrey.”
“I’ll call tomorrow. A reel is about to be announced, Mr. Yardley is on the dais and clearing his voice.” Geoffrey stood and offered her his arm. “Shall we join the set?”
Letty wished Jane was here, she was an excellent sounding board. But Jane was away visiting a sick relative. Unable to find a sympathetic ear, Letty spent a restless night trying to come to terms with her future. Geoffrey was a decent man, gentle with animals. That always said a lot. They had shared a warm friendship. But he did not feel any passion for her. She was as sure of this as she was of her own feelings. Did it matter? Would love grow after they’d tied the knot? She wished she could be sure of it. And she wished another man didn’t keep entering her dreams. But even if Brandon had asked for her hand, she would have been sorely conflicted, because of what marriage to him would mean. Waiting for him to return from perilous journeys undertaken for the Crown, always with the constant fear of him never coming home.
The next afternoon, Geoffrey called, having forgone his usual riding clothes for a neat coat and breeches, his fair hair slicked back. Aunt Edith welcomed him in with a warm smile, and even Uncle Alford emerged from his study to greet him.
When they were afforded some privacy with her aunt’s promise of afternoon tea taking her from the room, and her uncle retiring to write his sermon, Geoffrey relaxed in a chair and smiled at her. “Your uncle has given his blessing. What have you decided, Letty?”
Was it unreasonable to want him to be more romantic? She might have been considering a new curricle.
“Yes, Geoffrey, I will marry you.”
He smiled and came to kiss her.
Brandon stepped off the gangplank onto the wharf. London skies were a familiar gray, the air humid with the promise of rain. While Hove fussed over the luggage, Brandon hailed a hackney.
It was good to be back in England. Paris had proved to be a triumph with the comtesse released from prison. He hadn’t enjoyed the ensuing soirees and dinners which followed, longing inexplicably for home, his thoughts often returning to Letty. What was happening in her world? He had not expected that short period they’d spent together to hold such sway over him. While admitting it would be unfair to her to marry her, he’d bought a ring from a Paris jeweler. Even after he removed the small velvet box from his pocket and flipped open the lid to gaze at the twinkling diamond, he was still unsure.
“It’s a fine ring,” Hove observed. “Am I to be told the lady’s name?”
“Not yet, Hove.” Brandon was not prepared to tempt fate.
As the carriage took him and Hove to Mayfair, he realized that although glad to be in London, this city held no particular joy for him either. This peculiar restlessness had even dampened the pleasure of receiving notice of the Regent’s intention to honor him with an award for services rendered during the capture of French traitors. Descrier, Elford, and Pierse had been found guilty and hanged, and the matter at an end.
This evening, the Willard’s were holding a dinner. Tomorrow, at Carlton House, Brandon would be among those the Regent awarded. A party was to follow to which his parents were invited.
Brandon had received a fulsome letter from his father expressing his surprise and joy to learn that his son, over the last five years, had performed exemplary service for king and country. Apparently, all was forgiven. But he still hoped, with increased enthusiasm, Brandon would marry the colonel’s daughter.
Brandon buried his cynicism. If he ever had a son,
there would be no restrictions placed on his love, whatever the boy amounted to.
While the circumstances of Marston’s death were in no way similar to Freddie’s, Brandon admitted that something had changed him, that whatever had caused him to seek this dangerous work no longer drove him, and he’d come to accept that Willard was right. He should change his life. But not to set up a nursery with the colonel’s daughter.
Willard and his wife, Veronica, greeted him in their drawing room. “Welcome back, Brandon. Your time in Paris has been well served!” Willard said with unusual insouciance. “London has failed to turn on its best summer weather for you.”
Still strangely out of sorts, Brandon glanced at the rain lashing the windows. “No, but it is reliably unreliable.”
“You must enjoy the rest of the Season, before everyone retires to the country to escape the heat,” Mrs. Willard said. “My niece, Angela, has been asking where you’d got to. She is to perform again tonight.”
“I look forward to hearing her lovely voice again.” Brandon’s smile hid dismay. He enjoyed Miss Willard’s superb performance last time, and would again, but he wearied of society, after endless Paris soirees filled with clever repartee and flirtations which hadn’t captivated him like they once had. He had met several charming, beautiful women, but resisted any involvement. Perhaps he did need a change of scene. Cumbria must be nice this time of year. The thought of seeing Letty brought him alive.
“Shall we adjourn to the library?” Willard led the way to the door. “You can fill me in on the details. One learns so little from dispatches.
“The comtesse was in good health despite spending time in that wretched prison?” Willard asked as he poured the drinks.
“I encountered few difficulties. Nothing, should it be discovered, that would cause a diplomatic upset. The comtesse appeared to have been treated well by the guards who greatly respected her. She is soon to join her husband in Vienna.”
“What are your plans?” Willard rose to replenish their glasses after they’d covered the events on the Continent. He settled back in his chair.
Barons, Brides, and Spies: Regency Series Starter Collection Volume Two Page 40
