Now and then, though, her confidence waned, especially when she saw him with a beautiful woman who moved with grace and elegance. Like Clementina Easton, who was smiling brightly as they danced together. She never doubted Nat, but sometimes she could not help but worry that he would ultimately realize that he’d got the worse end of their bargain. He deserved more than an unremarkable redhead with a crooked body.
Nat watched the dancers from the edge of the room. So many pretty young ladies, with their fresh faces, charming smiles, and graceful movements.
They all looked the same to him.
His eyes sought out Philippa’s brilliant hair, and found it easily, shimmering like garnets in the candlelight. She was the only one he wanted to see. He honestly did not know how he would have survived the damnable social whirl without her. It would have probably come to the point where he would simply have asked Dearne to pick a bride for him. How could he have chosen for himself from among so many? Especially when he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He thanked his lucky stars that he’d met Philippa on that fateful evening a few weeks ago. He’d been reprieved of having to throw himself into the marriage mart, and had been allowed to squire around a young woman he genuinely liked. Everything was going his way, so he ought to have been happy.
But he was still too often tense, his nerves stretched tight as a drum. Overly crowded rooms could send him into a sweat, bringing images to mind of those packed squares of infantrymen battered by French artillery. Sharp noises sometimes took on the sounds of that incessant French cannonade. At such times, it was all he could do not to turn tail and bolt. But he was determined not to give in to those wretched moments of weakness. He fought them, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths until he came back to himself. Many times when he opened his eyes he found Philippa looking up at him with quiet understanding, though she never said a word. Then she would smile, sometimes touching his hand, and he forgot all about the war. If she continued to smile at him like that, surely the damnable episodes would eventually cease.
Nat had danced once this evening with the daughter of the hostess, who’d given him no choice but to ask her, but had not allowed himself to be persuaded to dance with anyone else. He disappeared into the card room for a while, then wandered about the room, chatting briefly with a fellow officer or two, but primarily he waited, impatiently, for the next set promised to Philippa. Sitting with her for half an hour was the only part of a ball he enjoyed, the only time he was truly at ease. They spoke of random topics, of family and friends, of books and music. She was better read and more cultured than Nat, but she somehow drew him into conversation without any hint of condescension on her part, or boredom on his. Even the sound of Philippa’s voice, and especially her laughter, had become a balm to his soul.
The instant the previous set ended, Nat was at her side. He acknowledged Lady Reynolds with a nod, then gave Philippa his arm and led her away.
“I have done some reconnaissance,” he said. “There is a small terrace off one of the anterooms that no one seems to have discovered. We can be private there.”
“You know, sir, that people have noticed how you and I disappear together for at least one set at every ball.”
“It seems foolish to simply sit and watch. I much prefer to take you someplace where we can actually have a private conversation.”
“It might be thought that I am trying to encourage a compromising situation.”
“Bah. Only your mother thinks that, admit it.”
Philippa smiled. “She has mentioned it. Not about my engineering a compromising situation. She knows that is not necessary when you and I already have an agreement. But she worries that other people may get that impression.”
“She worries too much about what other people think. Here we are. See, there is a door to the terrace.” He guided her through the empty room and out the door. “There is no bench, I’m afraid. But I thought you might appreciate the cool night air for a few minutes.”
“I do, thank you.”
“I have come to a decision, Philippa. About balls.”
“You hate them.”
“So do you. I see you watching the other dancers with longing. I do not understand why your mother insists you attend them.” Because Philippa could not participate, more attention was drawn to her disability. It seemed incredibly cruel to Nat.
“They are important social events,” Philippa said. “She wants us to be seen together.”
“We have been seen together often enough. I believe it is obvious that I am courting you. I spoke to an army colleague this evening, and he mentioned it. I think we are doing quite enough to ensure that we are seen together. I intend to tell your mother that there are to be no more balls.”
“Oh.”
The look in her eyes made him reconsider. “Damn. Am I coddling?”
She smiled. “No, you are being kind.”
“That is often the same thing, is it not? I am accustomed to issuing orders. I should have asked about your feelings on the matter. Do you enjoy balls?”
“Now and then. I love the music. I like to watch the dancers, but I do sometimes get a bit wistful that I cannot join in. I watched you and Clementina Easton. You dance very well, as I knew you would, and I found myself wishing it could have been me. But those are fleeting regrets that I do not dwell on.”
“Ah, Philippa.” He took her hand. “I would rather sit out ten sets with you than dance one set with Miss Easton.”
“Thank you for saying so. But you mustn’t worry about me. I’ve had a lifetime of not dancing, so I am well accustomed to sitting out. I do tire of always being with the dowagers and chaperones, though. These stolen sets with you are what I most look forward to.”
“Suppose we limit them. Balls, I mean, not stolen sets. I have no wish to give up those. I rather enjoy finding hiding places. One never knows what interesting people one may encounter while hiding.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Or what interesting circumstances may result.”
His laughter joined hers, and then he brought her gloved hand to his lips. “I am quite pleased with our interesting circumstance, ma’am.”
She flushed a lovely shade of pink and lowered her eyes. “As am I, sir.”
“What would you say to no more than one ball per week?”
“I would say that is more than reasonable.”
“Good. Consider it done.”
Three weeks into his “courtship” he escorted Philippa to a rout party given by Lord and Lady Craig. It was the sort of event he most hated, where one stood in long lines to get in, then stood shoulder to shoulder with a throng of people one didn’t know, or did know and disliked, and then one turned around and made the slow progress to get the hell out. He would never understand the appeal of such a gathering. Nothing ever happened. One simply milled about in over-warm, overcrowded rooms with other over-dressed people and engaged in over-long meaningless conversations. If one was lucky, one might be served a glass of wine, if one could get near a footman with a tray of full glasses. But there was never food or cards or dancing to offer a moment’s distraction.
Sometimes there were several such parties in an evening, but Nat refused to squire Philippa to more than one. He’d established that rule shortly after the one-ball-per-week rule, much to Lady Reynolds’s chagrin. He had stood his ground against her protests, though, and she had no choice but to capitulate. Despite what she might have thought, he did not establish these rules purely for selfish motives. Besides his own aversion to crowds and noise and pointless socializing, he did not like to see Philippa forced to stand for such a long period without hope of a chair to give her hip a rest. She never complained, and probably never would as she wanted so badly to seem normal—for his sake, he thought, rather than for her own—but he had become aware of tiny signs of fatigue that signaled to him it was time to leave. A tightness around her mouth. A more frequent shifting of weight. A slight tilting of her body away from the bad
hip. The limp a bit more pronounced.
After noticing one or two of those signs at the Craig rout, he’d begun to steer her toward the exit, when they became stalled behind a group of loud, swaggering young men whose conversation turned to Waterloo and the rousting of Napoleon. A year later, the famous battle was still being rehashed, primarily by those who were not there. Armchair generals who would not know a line from a column made Nat want to spit.
He was in no mood to listen to such prattle right now, and tried to elbow his way past them, when one of the men said, “Thank God for the Prussians. Wellington’s ‘scum of the earth’ troops would have fallen without them.”
Nat saw red. He’d commanded some of those troops, and they had performed bravely and well at Waterloo. Hell, if not for the 52nd Foot, there might not have been an Allied victory at all, or at least not that day. Yes, many of the men had come up from the lowest levels of society, some even from the criminal ranks, but with good training and army discipline, they had become a proud fighting force. Nat would have trusted any one of them with his life. These prosing fools with their pomaded hair and high shirt-points could not be trusted with the time of day.
“You should be damned grateful for those ‘scum of the earth’ soldiers.” He ought to have kept his tongue between his teeth, but when did he ever?
The dandified pup who’d spoken turned and glared at Nat through a quizzing glass that hung from his neck on a black ribbon. He might have been examining a particularly nasty insect. “I beg your pardon. Were you speaking to us, sir?”
“I was indeed, you insolent cur. You have no idea what happened on that battlefield, and what the Prussians did or did not do. You do not even have the right to an opinion.”
“And you do?”
“I was there. You were not. I advise you not to make a fool of yourself by pretending to know what happened. And by the way, that lot of scum you talk about was responsible for routing the last of the Imperial Guard and bringing an end to the battle. Those scum soldiers saved your prissy, indulgent way of life, sir. I’ll thank you to remember that next time you dare to criticize them.”
He took Philippa’s arm and led her away from the gaping young man.
“I’m sorry, Philippa. That was badly done. I should have kept my mouth shut.”
“I’m glad you did not.”
“You are?”
“Yes. I have often noticed that you get angry or irritable when there is talk of Waterloo. You usually become silent and morose. I am glad you spoke up this time. I know it must be difficult to leave the horrors of war behind, and you should not. It made you the man you are. I also believe it is a good thing to air your opinions now and then, to vent a bit of steam, so to speak.”
“It will take more than a bit of steam, Philippa.” He kept her close as he led her through the crowd, speaking almost directly into her ear so that she could hear him above the din of voices, but not loud enough to be overheard. These were not words he wanted others to hear. “You cannot know what I have seen and done, how many men I have killed, how many of my own men I’ve seen killed. Not so much at Waterloo, where we suffered few losses. We fared much worse as breach assault teams at Ciudad Rodrigo and Badajoz.” In fact those sieges had been gruesome, with his company among the party known as the Forlorn Hope at Badajoz. He still treasured his “Valiant Stormer” arm badge earned by 52nd survivors of those campaigns. He had suffered no mental weakness afterward, though both sieges had been ten times worse than Waterloo. He still did not understand it. Perhaps it was because there was always another battle and therefore no time to reflect on the last one. Waterloo had been his final battle. Since then, he’d had nothing but time to replay in his mind that last stand and the horrific, ceaseless pounding of French cannonade.
“I will never know what you have lived through,” Philippa said, “but I suspect the faces of your fallen men, and even those of the enemy fallen, will stay with you forever.”
How could she know that? Did she know that his dreams were filled with those faces still, long after battle?
“I know you cannot leave it all behind,” she said. “I believe it would be impossible for the most heartless of men to do so. And you are far from heartless. You are a man of fierce honor and duty and loyalty. I cannot make you forget, and would not presume to try. The best I can do is to help you cope with the past, and try to make the rest of your life peaceful.”
“Peaceful? I don’t know …”
“Well, perhaps a minor skirmish now and then.” She smiled, almost coquettishly. “But no battles, if you please.”
By God, she was flirting with him. Nat bit back a grin. “I knew from the first that I would like you. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Chapter Three
Nat entered the club with some trepidation. It was an exclusively military club, for infantry and cavalry officers only. He was a member but almost never showed up. However, when his close friend and fellow officer of the 52nd, Reginald Kenning, had asked Nat to join him for a bottle and a bird, Nat hadn’t the heart to refuse.
It was bad enough being among London’s social elite and trying to hide his particular anxieties. To be among other soldiers could be disastrous. What if they guessed? What would they think of him?
Lord, he could not wait to get back to the solitude of his Oxfordshire home.
His “troubles” manifested themselves more frequently in Town, probably because of the incessant noise and crowds. He sometimes felt smothered, closed in, stifled. He had more nightmares, longer bouts of melancholy, and was easily startled. He had little patience for London social life and found nothing purposeful in the way most so-called gentlemen spent their time. Some days he wanted to scream with frustration. He hated what had become of him, this prickly, tentative existence, a life only half lived. It had been a year since he’d seen battle. A stronger man, a better soldier, would have shaken off the effects by now. If not for his commitment to Philippa, he’d have bolted long ago.
Nat was hailed by several acquaintances as he entered the club’s coffee room, where he was to meet Kenning. It was a boisterous, jovial gathering, and he was welcomed warmly. He relaxed only slightly as he studied the men around him. They were good men, most of them, and he liked them. Part of him was pleased to be among friends and colleagues again; another part remained guarded and watchful.
None of the others seemed to exhibit the same tension and stressfulness he had felt during the last year. He did not see wariness in their eyes or tension in their shoulders. He saw only laughter and hail-fellow-well-met camaraderie. No one spoke of battle at such gatherings. Lost friends were mentioned and lauded, but specifics of battle were never discussed. Nat would like to have known if any of his fellow Light Bobs had been affected by the extraordinary cannonade the infantry squares had endured on that northern ridge. He’d never seen the like in nine years in Copenhagen, Spain, or Portugal, and had been shaken to his core, literally and figuratively. That deafening, ceaseless pounding of French artillery still haunted him, keeping him constantly on edge.
But none of his fellow officers seemed fazed. Not even Kenning, who’d commanded a square under the same bombardment.
Nine years of battle had, of course, taken its toll on his body. He’d been shot, slashed with sabers, and bayoneted. He’d been thrown from horses and struck by artillery debris. He’d been treated by surgeons so exhausted or drunk or inexperienced that it was a miracle he survived. But he had survived, and returned to battle time and time again with no more ill effects than a few scars. Never, ever had war affected his mind. Until now.
He was determined, though, to overcome whatever it was that ailed him. He would not give in to weakness, whether of the body or of the mind. He. Would. Not.
“Ah, there you are, Beckwith.” Kenning waved him over to a leather chair next to his own, then signaled for a waiter to pour a second glass of wine. “Glad you were able to tear yourself away from Miss Reynolds for an evening.”
“The devil you say.” Nat took a seat and the proffered glass of wine, which he downed in a single swallow. He felt the need of a bit of Dutch courage to survive an evening at the club.
“Or did you have to get Lady Reynolds’s permission for a night off from squiring her daughter around?”
“Bugger off, Kenning. It is not like that.”
“Isn’t it?”
Nat groaned. “God, is that how it looks?”
“It looks as though the young lady has captured your attention. She is an interesting choice, Nat.”
“Because she is lame?”
“Well … yes.”
“What the bloody hell does that matter? She is a charming girl, with a razor wit and a kind heart. Handsome, too, by God. I’ll not have you speaking ill of her.”
Kenning held up a palm. “Fall back, old boy. Didn’t mean anything by it, I assure you. No need to bite my head off.”
“Sorry. I am just so damned tired of being the latest on dit. Why can’t people mind their own damned business and leave us the hell alone?”
“Because society thrives on gossip and innuendo. Yours is an unusual courtship, so people will talk. I’ve met Miss Reynolds once or twice, you know, and quite liked her.”
“So do I. But what the deuce is so unusual about a limp?”
“It’s not so much the limp, old boy. It’s you.”
“Me?”
“You’ve been least in sight for a good year. Then you suddenly show up courting Miss Reynolds. Naturally, everyone is curious. Was there some sort of family arrangement over the winter?”
“Not exactly.” Nat held out his empty glass to a passing waiter, who refilled it with the club’s best claret. When he’d gone, Nat lowered his voice and said, “If I tell you how it came about, do you promise to keep your trap closed?”
Kenning promised, and so Nat gave him the whole tale about two misfits hiding behind a tree in a ballroom and joining forces. By the end of it, Kenning was wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, and drawing far too much attention with his guffaws.
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