It Happened One Season

by Stephanie Laurens

  “That was our plan, sir. I see no reason to change it.”

  “Good. It will make it easier for me to endure the infernal Season if I know from the beginning that you and I are promised to each other. I won’t be forced to dance attendance on insipid girls with little wit and no conversation.”

  “But you may be forced to dance, sir. You cannot sit out every set with me. Only two sets with one partner, whether dancing or sitting out, is considered proper.”

  “Is that another one of those abominable Rules? Who makes up these idiotic restrictions?”

  “I do not know, but Mamma will not allow us to ignore them completely. Again, sir, if you wish to back out—”

  “Nonsense. We will get through this, Philippa. May I call you Philippa? We are practically betrothed, after all.”

  “Of course.”

  “Unless you’d prefer Pip.” One corner of his mouth twitched, and his silvery gray eyes sparkled with amusement. “I thought it a rather charming sobriquet.”

  “Don’t you dare call me Pip. Only my brothers ever use that name and I’ve always hated it. It makes me sound even smaller than I am.”

  “It does not suit you, in any case. Philippa does. My given name is Nathaniel, but hardly anyone uses that mouthful. I am called Nat by my friends.”

  “Then I should be pleased to call you Nat. In private, of course.”

  “Of course. The confounded Rules.”

  He touched her elbow again to indicate they could resume walking. He did not take her arm, as most men—and women—were generally quick to do, assuming she could not walk without assistance. She liked him all the more for allowing her to hobble along on her own. She might look ungainly, but she was not helpless.

  “I know we spoke of making a marriage of convenience,” he said. “Two social misfits joining forces and all that. But let me be clear, Philippa. Ours would not be a marriage in name only. I never meant that we would have anything but a true marriage. I have no desire to embark on a cold, bloodless alliance, typical of so many arranged aristocratic marriages. We already like each other, do we not? Over time, we will no doubt develop affection for one another. And we will share a marriage bed. In case you wondered.”

  She felt her cheeks warm and Philippa knew she’d broken out in bright pink blotches. She silently cursed all her redheaded ancestors for that unwelcome inheritance. “Let me be frank as well, then,” she said, hoping her firm, even tone counteracted the flushed cheeks. “I never wanted a bloodless alliance either. But neither do I want a sophisticated marriage in which we each turn our heads at the other’s indiscretions. I do not believe I have the stomach for it. I want a true marriage, too, Captain.”

  “Good. We are in agreement, then. Now, let us get on with this damnable courtship your mother has insisted upon.”

  Nat led his horse down South Audley Street and onto Curzon Street. He had no wish to face his brother yet, to tell him of the proposed courtship with Philippa. So, instead of returning to Dearne House on St. James’s Square, he headed toward Kensington, where there was a cozy little tavern he frequented. He never met anyone he knew there, and was left in peace to nurse a pint or two.

  Or maybe three, after the trying morning he’d had.

  When Philippa had introduced him to her mother last night at the ball, he’d known he was in for a controlled battle. Lady Reynolds was a formidable hen, fiercely protective of her disabled chick. Though he had not yet spoken to her of marriage—he still had enough wits about him to know a ball was not the place to request her daughter’s hand—she was not stupid and knew something was afoot, and clearly was not happy about it.

  Nat had girded his loins for battle when he’d called on her this morning.

  He had not been surprised to find Philippa’s brother, Sir William, in attendance as well. It had been an awkward meeting at best. Nat tried to be on his best behavior, calling on remembrances of days longs past, before he’d gone to war, and when his mother had tried to teach him fine manners. It was difficult to be amiable when both mother and brother probed and prodded to discover if there was some ulterior motive to his offer. As though it was impossible that any man could seriously want to marry Philippa.

  No wonder the girl was so quick to accept his offer. She must be anxious to escape a family who thought so little of her. No, that was unfair. They loved her, that much was clear. But they saw her as a cripple first, and a young woman second. They wanted happiness for her, but more than that they wanted her to be protected.

  Nat had every intention of protecting Philippa, but even after a short acquaintance—not even twenty-fours hours—it was evident to Nat that she did not need the kind of protection her family intended. Yes, he would keep her safe from harm, from unhappiness (as best he could), and from financial want. More than that, however, he would protect her from being smothered to death by her well-meaning family. Nat had promised not to coddle her, and he would keep that promise.

  He had a notion that she just might blossom into something quite extraordinary, if she was allowed a bit more freedom.

  He was pleased that his talk of a true marriage had not shocked her. She had blushed rather prettily, but had spoken with equal candor regarding her own expectations. One of the things he liked best about her was that he did not need to guard his words with her. Philippa actually seemed to enjoy his unpolished ways.

  He was glad she had not spoken of love. How could she, on such brief acquaintance? But ladies liked that sort of thing, he knew, liked to talk of love and happily-ever-afters. Nat had never been able to do that, had never been one to offer Spanish coin. He hadn’t given it much thought until Dearne had extracted that accursed promise from him, but it was very likely he was incapable of love. Yes, there had been affairs over the years, some of which had burned hot on a physical level, but never for longer than a few months. In the end, one woman was much the same as the next, which was why he’d agreed to Dearne’s request to find a bride. He did not much care whom he married, so long as she was not a complete shrew.

  He did not pick up any hint of shrewishness from Philippa. Quite the opposite, in fact. She was not one of those brightly polished society jewels who’d had all the interesting bits smoothed down and any sign of true character buffed clean out of her. Perhaps her family had not thought her worth the effort of a high polish when she was deemed imperfect due to her lameness. Dashed unfair, to be sure, but there it was and he was glad of it, for it made her all the more available to him. He liked her, which was more than he could say about other young woman of the ton he’d met who were indistinguishable, one from another, each modeled from the same tiresome pattern card.

  Philippa seemed so much more open and guileless than other young women, more genuine. Everything that was unique and interesting about her seemed to spring from a single source: the limp. Since there was no disguising it, and since it apparently made her unacceptable to most men, perhaps she saw no reason for artifice. Whatever the reason, he liked her. He knew that he could appear aloof and even cold and that young women were often uncomfortable in his presence. And yet Philippa was not at all intimidated by him. He did not want a woman who would be cowed by him, though he had not realized that until he’d met one who wasn’t. He had decided on the spot that she would do for him.

  Yes, her mother had insisted on a public courtship, which meant he would have to attend more balls and parties, would likely have to dance with a girl or two, God help him. But at least he would not have to consider them seriously as potential brides. He’d found his bride, and he was content with her.

  Even more content than he’d been last evening. As he watched her with her family, he was witness to a level of kindness and compassion he’d rarely encountered. Not from Sir William or Lady Reynolds, but from Philippa herself. She accepted their overprotective fussing and cosseting with grace, even when he suspected she hated it—all because they did it with love. She would not toss that love back in their faces through ingratitude. That took a s
trength of character Nat could only admire.

  He’d learned something else about her today that pleased him. She was much more attractive in the daylight than he’d expected. He would have married her regardless, because he truly liked her and thought they would suit each other. But discovering she was pretty was an added bonus. No, pretty did not describe her accurately. She was not the typical fair-haired, blue-eyed English rose pretty. Her appearance was much more striking than that.

  Her hair was extraordinary. Thick and shiny, it was one of the loveliest shades of red he’d ever seen—somewhere between bright coppery red and darkest auburn. He’d had a horse for several years in Spain—a chestnut with a dark red coat that gleamed bright and shiny in the sun. Philippa’s hair was almost exactly that color, or maybe even a shade darker. He suspected it was quite long hair, judging by the thickness of the various twists and knots at the back of her head. How far down her back did it hang, he wondered? And would it feel as satiny in his hands as it looked?

  Her eyebrows were, quite naturally, the same dark red, and were delicately arched over large eyes. Most fascinating of all was that her eyes were also the same brownish red color. Or perhaps a touch lighter. The color of Spanish sherry, a good amontillado.

  All that sameness of color ought to have been dull and uninteresting, but against the pale, fine-textured skin, it was actually quite stunning. Beautiful, even. And that skin. Lord, he’d wanted to touch it from the moment he first saw her. He’d often heard beautiful skin compared to porcelain, but had always thought it so much poetic exaggeration. Yet Philippa’s skin did indeed bring to mind fine porcelain. Clear, white, smooth, translucent. She was one of those rare redheads who was not freckled. At least on her face and neck. He wondered about the rest of her, and realized he would enjoy finding out.

  All in all, he was quite pleased with the arrangement with Philippa Reynolds. Though clearly he was getting the better end of the bargain. She deserved more than a sullen, broken-down soldier who could barely open his mouth without putting his foot in it.

  “Do you not find him a bit austere, my dear?” Philippa’s mother was still struggling with this new situation. It had been hours since the Captain had left them, and between discussions of balls and parties and dressmakers, she continued to drop in these little probing questions. “Austere, and even somewhat cold? And I am not quite sure his manners are all they should be. He seems a bit unpolished for the son of an earl.”

  “I don’t mind his lack of polish, Mamma. In fact, I find it rather refreshing. As for his austerity, remember that he is a military man, one who has spent many years in battle.” She remembered his mention of having demons, of being scarred in both body and mind. A lesser man would never have confessed as much, and she was pleased that he had trusted her enough to do so. “He has probably seen and done things during wartime that would harden any man. I suspect he is more sensitive than he lets on, and those experiences affected him deeply. I believe that is why he is so uncomfortable in society. He hasn’t yet shaken off the horrors of war, and is finding it difficult to adjust.”

  Mamma’s eyebrows lifted in question. “You learned all this about him in one short evening?”

  Philippa shrugged. “Just intuition.”

  “Well, you’ve always been a good judge of people. But I can’t shake the impression that he might be an ill-tempered man. Are you certain you will be safe with him?”

  “Physically safe? I have no doubt of it. Remember, he is a soldier at heart. He will go out of his way to protect me, to keep me safe.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  “I know I am.” And she did. She trusted him, was ready, in fact, to trust him with her future happiness. It was possible, of course, that she was the biggest fool ever born and that once married, Captain Beckwith would treat her like so much dirt beneath his feet. But she knew he would not. Philippa was willing to bet her life on it.

  It was time to change tactics. “And just think, Mamma. I might even be a countess one day. Won’t that make you proud, to introduce your daughter as Lady Dearne?”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “And everyone will know that you were right to trot me out each Season just like any other girl. That you knew someone would finally make me an offer.”

  “That is precisely what I am hoping, my dear, and why I have insisted on a public courtship. I would not want for anyone to know the truth of how this marriage actually came about. A harebrained scheme concocted after half an hour’s conversation. Really, Philippa, I am beyond astonished at you, I would never have dreamed—”

  “But do you not think him handsome, Mamma? The lame girl with no marital hopes will be seen on the arm of an incredibly attractive man. I will be the envy of every other girl this Season.”

  “Hmm. I daresay it will do you some good to be seen to have a suitor at last. And I suppose Captain Beckwith might be handsome if he did not insist on fixing a scowl on his face at all times.”

  “You and William made him nervous, that’s all. You’re a formidable pair, you know. I can assure you that he does not always scowl. When he smiles, it is actually quite dazzling.”

  Her mother arched an eyebrow. “Are you dazzled, Philippa? Is that what this is all about? An attractive man notices you and you lose all common sense?”

  “No, that is not what happened. He won me over with honor and honesty. His good looks only sweetened the bargain.”

  Her mother grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Oh, I do hope you know what you are doing, Philippa. It is not like you to be so impetuous.”

  “I know. But I want this, Mamma. And something tells me it will be all right.”

  “Your intuition again?”

  “Perhaps. Please trust me. I know it will work out. I just know it.”

  The open courtship of Captain Nathaniel Beckwith for Miss Philippa Reynolds became fodder for ton gossips. It was a most unusual pairing to be sure. Until a few weeks ago, the former army captain had been an infamous recluse for reasons unknown and widely speculated about. He was a somewhat dour man, but the heir to an earldom was still a prime catch. Why was he so interested in the poor lame girl whose mother had been hopelessly thrusting her into the marriage mart for three Seasons, when his rank and fortune could win him any number of more suitable young women?

  In was generally believed that there was more to this odd courtship than met the eye. They were invited everywhere, as each hostess hoped that her ball or party would be the scene of some new and interesting development.

  Philippa found the increased attention given her to be by turns embarrassing and amusing. Most times, she tried to ignore it and focused on Captain Beckwith.

  In public, he wore an air of command that marked him as a military officer. It also put a distance between him and everyone else, as though he might snap the head off anyone who spoke to him. Philippa had come to understand that his manner was meant to discourage hopeful mothers, matchmakers, and anyone else who might want something of him. She did not know why he did it, why he felt so uncomfortable in the world to which he was born. But she was perversely glad that he appeared so formidable and unapproachable. It meant she got to keep him all to herself.

  At the Easton Ball, her friend Lillian Faulkner sat out a set with her and chatted about the new bonnet she had purchased that afternoon. Philippa barely listened as she watched Nat partner Clementina Easton in a country dance.

  “I do believe you are infatuated with the captain,” Lillian said.

  “Not infatuated. But very intrigued.”

  “Are you sure it is not more than that? You’ve been stealing glances at him all evening. I’m not the only one to notice, you know. Tongues are wagging, Philippa.”

  “Let them wag. I am enjoying myself for once, after two awkward Seasons.”

  There were no doubt many who believed she was besotted and could not take her eyes from him. There was some truth in that, she had to admit. But only to herself. She was not yet ready to openly co
nfess her most private feelings, even to Lillian. The real reason she watched Nat, though, was to see how he fared in such close company. He maintained a stiff-backed, soldierly composure, but she saw signs of uneasiness and knew he held himself under tight control. Phlippa wondered if he would ever lose that enforced restraint and feel comfortable in his own skin again.

  Sometimes she watched him simply because he was glorious to look at. His complexion was sun glazed, setting off the golden lights in his tawny hair, and acting as a bold and attractive contrast to the crisp white of his linen. His gray eyes were a striking silver against the dark skin. He stood with the straight-backed bearing of a military man, his shoulders broad, his waist narrow, his legs long and well muscled. Nat looked handsome in his blue coat and gold breeches, but oh, how she would love to have seen him in full regimentals. How grand he must have looked.

  She really did try not to stare at him too obviously. She did not wish to appear a lovesick fool: the poor, pitiful cripple with a hopeless infatuation. Philippa knew the ton was fascinated with the lame girl who’d never had a suitor and the glorious golden god who might have had any woman but openly courted her. She wished that at least some of them were happy for her good fortune, but she suspected most of them expected Nat eventually to abandon her and were anxiously watching to see what she would do.

  In fact, she was quite confident he would not abandon her. They had made a bargain and he would honor it. Besides, Philippa did not believe he was interested in breaking their bargain, even if he could honorably do so. He showed no partiality for any other woman, even the ones who blatantly threw themselves in his path. He was polite, but spoke very little. Nat still had a tendency to speak a bit too bluntly, and she believed he often remained silent so as not to embarrass himself or others with one of his unvarnished truths. Philippa adored his bold tongue, and was delighted that he did not feel the need to curb it in her presence. She had the impression he said things to her that he was not comfortable saying to others, shared things with her that he hadn’t shared with anyone else. He was at ease with her.