by Lily George
“If you will excuse us, Lieutenant, my mother wishes to speak to my sister.”
“Of course.” He bowed low. “Miss Sophie, may I claim you for the next dance?”
“You may.” Sophie dropped a little curtsy. “Until then?”
He smiled, flashing brilliant teeth, and moved away.
“Whatever is the matter?” Sophie huffed, her brows drawn together in annoyance.
“You were standing entirely too close to Lieutenant Marable. What if Captain Brookes had seen you?”
Sophie shrugged her shoulders, refusing to reply.
Harriet sighed. “Promise me one thing. Be courteous to the captain tonight. Do not provoke him to anger by flirting with another man.”
“I won’t provoke anyone. I want to enjoy myself.”
“Do not enjoy yourself at Captain Brookes’s expense.” Exasperation surged through Harriet. How dare Sophie toy with the emotions of a good man?
Sophie flinched. “I will not deliberately hurt him.”
The lively little orchestra struck up the next dance, a cotillion, and Harriet watched Sophie glide off toward the dance floor with Lieutenant Marable. Her high spirits evaporated like a puff of smoke. Embarrassment at being left alone rooted her to the spot. Her blue gown was too noticeable. She must look ridiculous. What was the phrase? Mutton dressed as lamb? Harriet’s face heated and little drops of perspiration pricked the roots of her hair. Perhaps she should find a comfortable spot to wedge herself, where she could stay unnoticed. After all, she perfected the art of being a wallflower during her London season.
“Miss Harriet?” A pleasant voice rumbled, bringing a smile to Harriet’s face.
“Captain Brookes.” She sighed with relief, turning to face him. He held two glasses in his hand and extended one to her with a smile.
“Would you care to sit down?” He motioned away from the dance floor with a brief nod of his head.
“Most definitely.” She wove her way through the throngs of people, spying two empty chairs along the wall. She sank down in one, patting the seat of the other with her gloved hand.
“Are you enjoying yourself?” He sat beside her, taking a long draft of his drink.
“To be honest, Captain, no, I am not.” She took a tiny sip of her punch, allowing it to flow through her body, restoring her spirit.
“Why not?” He turned to face her squarely, cocking one eyebrow.
“Balls are not my favorite pastime, I’m afraid.” She took another refreshing taste. “Even during my London season, I never enjoyed attending one.” She cast a worried look over the dancers. Would Brookes spy Sophie in the cotillion with his ghost?
“I have not attended a ball since Waterloo,” he commiserated. “The Duchess of Richmond hosted one the night before the battle.”
“Before the battle!” Harriet echoed, caught off guard. “That seems a rather frivolous occupation before entering the fray.”
“It was.” He took another drink of his wine. “In the midst of the general merrymaking, we learned Bonaparte had crossed the frontier.”
“What did you do?” Harriet leaned toward him.
“Wellington and the Duke of Richmond shut themselves up in a dressing room, strategizing. Then Wellington decided we would attack on the morrow. I left when I got word so I had time to make my men ready.”
“Of course,” Harriet replied, gently urging him to keep talking.
“But many of the men elected to stay until dawn. They didn’t have time to change clothes, and fought in evening dress. The strangest thing of all was that, of all the men who danced that night, I reckon half were dead or wounded by the next evening. I was one of the lucky ones.”
His matter-of-fact voice cut her deeply. Her eyes stung with unshed tears. “I’m sorry.”
He looked at her, surprise opening his gray-green eyes wide. “Why are you sorry? That is a soldier’s lot in life.”
Harriet shook her head. “It seems a terrible waste, is all.” Her voice sounded so thick she hardly recognized it.
“No tears at a ball.” He took the glass from her hands. “I apologize for bringing the matter up at all. It seems strange to me, that this is the first ball I have attended since that fateful night.”
She swallowed and nodded her head.
“Would you like more punch? I might take another glass of wine myself.” He stood up, looking down at her expectantly.
“Yes, if you please.”
In his absence, she struggled to regain her composure. Flicking a glance over the crowded ballroom, she spotted Sophie, still dancing with Lieutenant Marable. A flash of anger suffused her, leaving her breathless. Did her petulant sister, so young and so headstrong, deserve a man like Captain Brookes?
Brookes strode across the ballroom, balancing the two drinks carefully while he navigated the throng. He halted in his tracks, staring at the dance floor. Ah, he had seen Sophie dancing merrily with someone else. Harriet could not turn away.
Brookes stared at the couple a moment longer. His head swiveled toward Harriet, his green eyes locking with her gaze. An inscrutable expression crossed his face. Then he vanished. Harriet peered around sharply. She could no longer pick out his broad shoulders in the crowd. She cast her eyes down, studying her blue kid slippers with intensity. Where he went was no concern of hers, was it? Perhaps he found a pretty dancing partner to incite Sophie’s jealousy.
Two very masculine feet shod in black leather appeared next to hers. She raised her head, heat rising to her cheeks.
“Miss Harriet.” Captain Brookes cleared his throat. He started again, speaking in an even tone, “Would you do me the honor of reserving the next dance for me?”
Chapter Nine
Brookes stood before Harriet, extending his hand. She cast her azure eyes up to him, and he willed his countenance to remain impassive. He refused to allow Harriet to read into his soul and discover his inner turmoil. Seeing Sophie with another man—a man who could have been him a few years ago—fired Brookes with an overwhelming urge to prove himself. His heart thumped painfully in his chest. Could he manage a dance? Riding a horse never troubled him but the hops and skips of a country dance presented a challenge that set his heart racing and his palms sweating. Hedging his bets, he requested a minuet of the orchestra. ’Twas the slowest dance in his recollection.
Time ceased to move. Only Harriet would break the spell. After an eternity, she slipped her hand into his, rising gracefully from the chair. “I would be honored, Captain.” Her touch, even through their gloved hands, sent tingles up his arm. He breathed deeply of her violet scent, willing himself to remain steady and composed.
They wound their way through the press of the crowd to the cleared area in the middle of the room. “A minuet, if you please, ladies and gentlemen,” cried the village shopkeeper, the impromptu master of ceremonies. Interest surged through the crowd of onlookers, and several of the younger couples began clearing the floor. “A minuet? How very old-fashioned.” One young lady laughed, swishing past Brookes on the arm of her partner. Yet Brookes noted with pleasure that some of the older couples, who had not been dancing, stood up. Taking their places on the floor, the faces of the couples reflected surprise and excitement.
The orchestra struck up a few stately opening bars. Brookes stood still, listening for a moment. Like the fifes and drums calling his men to standards, the delicate strains infused Brookes with a sense of purpose.
Brookes steered Harriet beside that mirror image of his youth who had claimed Sophie for the cotillion. Obviously they were proceeding with the old-fashioned minuet. Their second dance together. The young pup had serious intentions, did he? Bowing, Brookes moved to stand next to Sophie.
“Captain Brookes, allow me to present Lieutenant Marable.” Harriet indicated the young man with a
wave of her gloved arm. He bowed low, and the lieutenant returned the salute.
“Captain Brookes, sir. I’ve heard tales of your sport at Waterloo.” Marable regarded him with something like awe. His openmouthed gaze sent a frisson of discomfort down Brookes’s spine.
“Have you, now?” Brookes turned and bowed to Sophie, who returned the honors. Facing Harriet, he made his salute. She curtsied, but kept her eyes trained on his face. She nodded, inclining her head ever so slightly. Her encouragement sent strength surging through his body.
“Oh, yes. The tales of your cavalry charge fill the men of my battalion with admiration.” Marable turned and honored Harriet, then Sophie.
Would that young idiot shut his trap? Honestly, ’twas enough to try a man’s patience. “Indeed.” Brookes took Sophie’s hands, leading her around to one side. He bowed to her, and she responded with a deep curtsy. He stepped gingerly at first, unsure if his leg would follow his commands. He shifted his weight slowly to the ball of his foot, then back to his heel, rising and falling in time with the music. He breathed a sigh of relief. Everything seemed to be going well. Time to engage in battle.
He reached out, taking Sophie’s hands. They slid a few paces to the left, and he drew her slightly closer. “This reminds me of a ball some three years ago.” He squeezed her hands, willing her to understand. He was the same wild lad as before he left for the peninsula, despite the outward changes she saw. Wasn’t he?
Sophie rocked forward and then fell back into place. “I don’t recall ever dancing the minuet.” She dropped her head and peeked at Lieutenant Marable and Harriet, who mirrored their steps.
She only raised her head for the next movement, joining Marable in the middle of the floor, circling him with a coquettish air. She flashed Marable a dazzling smile, which he returned warmly. The couple bowed sideways at Brookes and Harriet. Catching Sophie’s eye, he studied her with a curious intensity. He suspected the gulf between them grew wider with each step of the dance. Her eyes reflected glimmers of candlelight from the chandeliers up above, but he could not read her expression. She returned to her place beside him, bobbing down low.
He moved into the middle of the floor, rotating around Harriet. As they joined hands, Harriet hissed, “Do not lose hope, Captain. You are doing most exceedingly well.” Then she turned away, giving Marable a brief salute. He had been so engaged in watching Sophie’s movements and reactions that he had forgotten to gauge his own. He smiled with relief. Dancing came naturally to him on his wooden leg, just like before the war. His first success. He schooled his features back to an impassive mask, and returned to his place beside Sophie.
The ladies formed a star pattern, holding their hands high. Brookes stared at Harriet and Sophie circling left and then to the right. A fierce need to shelter and protect them both flooded his sensibilities. He blinked in a vain attempt to clear his vision. Harriet’s purity reminded Brookes of a courtly maiden of old, granting her favor to a departing knight. He desired her good opinion. He wanted, for her sake, to be a better man. Should he honor his unspoken commitment to her sister only to lose her in the bargain? The problem ensnared Brookes, trapping him like the French regiment ambushed in the valley at Waterloo.
Sophie—well, capriciousness was her stock-in-trade. Yet he recalled the young woman who snipped a lock of her hair for him before he departed for the peninsula. He remembered the years of love letters they exchanged, their affection deepening into adoration with each missive. True, when he returned, she faltered.
So now he faced the most important decision of his life. Which sister desired his affections?
Or, to put it bluntly, which one deserved his love?
The ladies broke apart. He and Sophie spun around each other, their eyes locked. He gazed down at her, trying to read her very soul. Duty and honor won out over his heart. He could not pursue Harriet if an obligation existed with Sophie. His eyes flashed a private message to the slender, lovely creature he held. Enough caprice.
Sophie’s blue eyes flickered in return. She backed away to the center of the floor again, linking hands with the other women. Had she finally capitulated? The men bowed to the ladies, and Brookes glanced over at Marable. His old competitive urge returned, running high. Brookes did not desire to win so much as he desired to beat Marable at his own game. But his foe smiled happily at the dancers, completely oblivious to all that transpired, in the blink of an eye, between his partner and Brookes. A heaviness settled in Brookes’s chest. Marable never saw him as a challenge.
He led Sophie to the center of the floor, bowing low. She swished her skirts and returned the courtesy. Her eyes were cast down, but the color rose in her cheeks, a sure sign that her allegiance to Marable wavered. With an odd twinge of disappointment, Brookes no longer cared if she surrendered or if he won. Bringing the elegant dance to a finale, the ladies drew together, forming a regal line that faced the crowd. Brookes joined Marable and two other men in standing behind them. The twin columns of dancers saluted deeply to the group of onlookers. Polite applause broke out in a wave over the ballroom. He offered his elbow to Harriet, his earlier enthusiasm completely extinguished as he escorted her off the floor.
A hollow ache thudded in the pit of Harriet’s stomach, leaving her with no appetite for supper. She toyed with the salad on her plate, stabbing it reluctantly with her fork. Lady Reese leaned over from her place on Harriet’s right. “You should eat something more, my dear. Try the chicken, there’s a good girl. I know it’s the fashion for young ladies to pretend they never hunger. But after dancing, a hearty meal is a pleasant thing.”
Harriet responded with a weak smile. She took a bite of the chicken, but it tasted like ashes in her mouth. Why was she so unhappy? After all, she had done everything she could to encourage the captain into reclaiming Sophie. Hadn’t she cajoled Sophie into being kind, even throughout the minuet? Hadn’t she applauded the captain for his splendid performance? Everything clicked into place just as it should. Her head throbbed, the blood pounding in her ears.
“I wish I had seen the action at Waterloo.” Lieutenant Marable sat across from Harriet, smiling at Sophie. “To be one of that regiment—well, they were the bravest group of soldiers since time immortal. Losing a limb in that battle is as good as a badge of courage, you know. If not for that wooden leg, I reckon Brookes would still be in the thick of army life.”
Harriet observed a flicker of interest cross Sophie’s face. “Is that so?”
“Oh, yes. Of course, the men of my regiment are green, but we all endeavor to be gallant and as brave as those men. It is our rallying cry.” Marable waved a hand in the captain’s direction, sitting a few tables over near a window.
Harriet watched her sister cast a glance at the captain. Her blue eyes deepened, a sure sign she was intrigued. So her sister perceived the captain in a new light, as a war hero. She stared at Sophie, trying to discern any spark of special interest.
“Your rallying cry?” Sophie echoed thoughtfully.
Harriet pushed away from the table with a scraping noise that set her teeth on edge. “Excuse me. I must find my mother.” Her legs trembled so; she gripped the back of the chair for support.
“Of course, dear.” Lady Reese caught her hand and patted it gently. “She is at the end of the table.”
When Lady Handley spied her eldest daughter, her eyes widened with relief. Harriet knelt beside her mother’s chair. “Mama, I am sure you must be exhausted. Shall we leave now?” Perhaps Mama’s nerves could serve as her saving grace.
“Perhaps we should stay until after they serve the final course. Appearances, you know.”
Tears filled Harriet’s eyes. Another moment at the ball meant another moment of torture. Blinking rapidly, she whispered, “Honestly, Mama, I have such a headache.”
Mama searched her face with a curious gaze, and Harriet schooled her featu
res to hide her roiling emotions, trying to appear headachy and tired—not heartbroken in the least. “I feel ill. Wouldn’t you rather leave now, too?”
“Yes. We will leave now. I prefer that, as well.”
“Oh, thank you, Mama.” Relief flooded through Harriet.
“Go and fetch our cloaks. I shall collect your sister and meet you in the hall.”
Harriet rose shakily from her mother’s side. Her feet moved as though she swum through molasses, and it took forever to cross the supper room. Entering the hallway, she collided with something heavy. Strong arms seized her shoulders. “Are you all right?” She recognized the voice. She would know it anywhere, at any time.
She rubbed her eyes, clearing the tears away. Then she tilted her head up, looking steadily at Captain Brookes. “Yes,” she managed in a shaky voice. “I have such a headache. I must go and rest or I am afraid I might be ill.”
He released her shoulders. “I’m sorry to hear that. Give me a few moments, I will get my carriage and escort you home.”
“No!” She could not bear the thought of being in an enclosed carriage with him and with Sophie. The mere mention of it churned her stomach. True, she never expected the captain to throw Sophie over for her. She encouraged them both to reunite. But their possible union hurled her heart into her slippers. She must stay far away from the pair of them to protect her emotions, until her heart healed.
His brows drew together in surprise at her tone. She hastened to soften the blow, lest she tip her hand. “I don’t wish for you to leave early, simply because I must go.”
“I do not like the idea of three women walking home alone this late at night.”
“It’s not that far,” she protested. “There is no need.”
He sighed, running his eyes over her face. “We will compromise. I will send you home in the carriage, but I will stay here, enjoying the dubious pleasures of a country dance. Agreed?”
She smiled in spite of herself. “Agreed.”
