True, tucked in to his side, so close to him she almost could not breathe, gazed up at Lord Drake. From her angle below him—she was not very tall, and the major-general was—she could see the muscle that twitched in his jaw, signaling some inner tension that she was not privy to. She had just met this man, but she felt already that she knew him better than she would ever know Mr. Bottleby, and she was to marry that man! Or perhaps not. That was what she had come away to decide.
“Your anger against those thoughtless young men was understandable, you know,” she said, and knew that she had read what his thoughts had returned to when his head swiveled and he gazed down at her with surprise in his changeable eyes. They strolled to a garden wall at one end of the terrace—she matched her gait to his limp—and leaned against it companionably.
He shook his head. “You have no idea how fierce that anger was, nor how close I was to killing someone. It made me wonder if I was fit to be around people anymore or if the war had made me so dangerous. I still dream of the killing, and the death.”
Her heart ached for him and for the edge of fear she heard in his deep voice. “You cannot know you would have shot the gentleman. Though the impulse was there, it does not mean you would have acted upon it. We all have impulses every day that we do not act upon.” Like her own impulse to reach up and touch him, his face, his hair, the harsh lines of pain that marred his good looks, and yet gave him a depth of expression lacking in most young men. She wanted to strip off her gloves and lay her naked hands against his skin; that impulse shocked her to the core.
“Perhaps you’re right. I hope you’re right. It was all so raw those first few weeks, the memories and the pain, and then to see that poor man mocked and bullied in that way! It was too much to take.”
“But you did the right thing,” she said, her tone bracing. She squeezed his arm. “And because of that incident the man has employment. You made a good end out of an unpromising beginning.”
“Optimist,” Drake laughed, gazing down into blue eyes that were surprisingly warm for so cool a color. He reached up and pinched her cheek, letting his fingers linger against the softness of her skin, feeling the warm flood of rosy color mount. “In another minute you will have me believing that it was meant to happen as it did, that young bastard—pardon me, devil—knocking poor Stanley down. I suppose you believe that God has a purpose for us all and that even bad things can have good repercussions.”
True’s whole body reacted from his careless caress. The touch of his naked hand on her skin, the warmth that pierced her, sent shivers through her body. “I do believe that we are given experiences and meet people for reasons, sometimes. Not all the time of course; but God sees what we need, and tries to help. Whether we are receptive to His help is another matter.”
Drake pondered her words. It was certainly true that her arrival was helping him cope with a visit he had not looked forward to. He had not known how to break his mother’s heart by telling her that he was not inclined to marry Miss Swinley, or anyone for that matter, especially after he had apparently raised her hopes in that direction with his thoughtless flirtation during the mother and daughter’s last visit, and so he had dreaded this day.
Thoughts of matrimony raised a question in his mind. He gazed down at the diminutive Miss Becket, thinking what a cuddlesome armful she made, tucked against him in the freshening breeze of late afternoon. “Why have you never married?”
If she was shocked by his forwardness, she did not show it. “I was engaged some years ago—seven to be exact—to an officer in the Royal Navy. I lost Harry when his ship went down in an engagement. He was never found.”
There was silence between them. Miss Becket gazed out at the river, and though there might have been a gleam of tears in her eyes, it was quickly conquered, though the blue was still shadowed with remembered pain, softened with the passing of time. She must have loved him deeply to be so affected by the memory after seven years.
“Seven years is a long time. You have never found his equal since?” He was a cad for prodding her, but he wanted to know. Miss Becket would make an admirable wife for some lucky fellow, and it would be a pity if she wore the willow for her lost love her whole life. She seemed eminently suited to the role of loving life partner.
• • •
“Love is not an everyday occurrence, Lord Drake.” It was an evasion, and True felt a fraud for not revealing that she was even now considering a proposal. His words had pierced the armor she had thrown up around her heart. Was Mr. Bottleby, her current suitor, Harry’s equal? In fortune and future, yes. The curate had gained a living in the north of England that though harsh was a good living. And he had a small private fortune, which Harry never had. That was why they had not married while he was on leave the last time she saw him. Poor Harry had felt the need to make his fortune, and with the war raging had felt sufficient prize money was just a matter of months away, a year at the most. And so although in material goods her suitor was Harry’s superior, Harry had a sweetness, a passion for life, that Mr. Bottleby could not match. Almost to herself, she said, “I have always thought that I would like to wait for love again, before marrying.”
Her words were like a blow to Drake. He had never thought about waiting for love, or perhaps more accurately had never believed that love was in his future. “I have thought about marrying. My mother would like me to, I know. But I have begun to wonder if it is fair to a young lady to marry, when I don’t really believe in love or any of that other rot that ladies seem to need before they consider themselves properly wooed.” He had intended his words to be humorous, but to his ears it sounded false and bitter.
Miss Becket opened her mouth to reply, but just then, behind them, footsteps fell on the gravel walk.
“There you are, you naughty pair!” Arabella’s dulcet voice fluted the words on the breeze with expert cadence. “We have been looking everywhere for you. Tea has been served, but you never came back, and you have been gone this age!”
Drake turned to find Miss Swinley on Conroy’s arm, bearing down on them at a determined pace. “My apologies, Miss Swinley. You must lay such barbarous behavior at my door, for Miss Becket has been my captive audience. I have been boring her with war stories.”
He could see from the corner of his eye Miss Becket’s swift questioning glance, but he felt compelled to tell a half-truth. It would not do to say they were speaking of love and marriage; it made more of their conversation than there really was.
“Not the thing to do, old man,” Conroy said, his voice smooth but his brown eyes full of questions. “The ladies prefer lighter subjects. Is that not so, Miss Swinley?”
Arabella cast him a side glance and then swept her lashes down. “It is true. We are but frail creatures, and any talk of bloodshed is so . . . oh, terrifying! I can imagine a distinguished war hero like Lord Drake might not understand our feeble fears, being so courageous, but . . .” She trailed off and sighed, as though the subject were too painful to continue.
Drake felt a swift rise of the strange blend of ennui and anger bubble through him at her predictable and patently false deprecation of her own sex’s fortitude. “I have always been under the impression that the fair sex was perhaps the more brave,” he said, through gritted teeth. “After all, childbearing is surely the most frightening—”
Arabella gave a little scream, and swooned against Conroy in a convincing display of delicacy. Conroy cast him a reproachful look, and Miss Becket tore away from him to administer to her cousin.
“How could you, Drake?” Conroy said, his voice accusing, his dark eyes angry. “Have you no manners left? It is above time that you learned that you cannot trade on your war hero reputation to forgive your every rudeness. You are not in battle now, old man!”
Remorse coursed through him. Conroy was right; he was not fit for polite company. He bowed. “Please excuse me, ladies. Conroy, I will leave them in your capable hands. My apologies for my beastly behavior.” He turned to Miss Becket
. “Your servant, miss.”
True, supporting still-swooning Arabella and thinking her cousin was doing it up much too brown, watched him limp away. What had caused that turn to bluntness when he had been the very soul of gentility with her? It just proved that though they had spoken for a half hour, and she had come to feel she understood some part of him, the inner man was still a mystery to her. And would remain that, for he was destined, if Lady Swinley and Lady Leathorne had their way, to wed Arabella.
How would the two go on as husband and wife? she wondered as she helped Lord Conroy support Arabella back into the blue saloon. Arabella was lovely and had taken well in London, but her own and her mother’s aspirations had kept her from accepting any of the numerous offers she had, or so True had always believed. Nothing less than an eldest son would do, and a future earl was the best possibility. Both of them had held on to the notion that Bella would not marry anyone but Lord Drake . . . unless a duke or a marquess should ask, of course, and despite her success in London she had never been wooed by a gentleman with such a title. At twenty-two it was time she found a husband, her mother had said. One more Season and she might be whispered of as on the shelf. Lady Swinley was right about one thing: Arabella would make an admirable countess, if that elevated position required a measure of haughtiness, an outer calm, and a streak of stubbornness a mile wide.
But would she ever learn to love Lord Drake as he deserved? True worried that Arabella, determined to wed a coronet, would not stop to consider either her own or her future husband’s happiness. Of course Lord Drake was a man, not a boy. He was used to command, and would surely not crumble in the face of feminine determination or wiles.
Or would he? He would not be the first man to be brought to his knees by feminine beauty or a mother’s manipulation. True could only pray for both his and Arabella’s sake that they made the right choice.
Chapter Four
Drake, remorseful for his fit of pique, determined to behave himself at dinner. He devoted himself to Miss Swinley, his companion at the table, and had her laughing gaily and teasing him with coquettish glances. He found that he could detach himself from the scene and let his true thoughts and feelings run under his external behavior; that helped him behave in a proper manner toward his mother’s guests.
All the while, though, he kept glancing down the table to where Miss Becket, looking delicate and fragile in a deep gold gown of some glowing material, sat next to the vicar, who had been invited to dinner, too. Probably at the last minute and to balance the table, Drake thought wryly, knowing his mother’s rigid adherence to the proprieties. Reverend Thomas was a fiftyish gentleman, learned and good-tempered. He had been Drake’s first tutor and had instilled in his pupil a love of good literature, along with the required Greek, Latin, and mathematics. He and Miss Becket seemed to have much to talk about, but then the young lady was a vicar’s daughter. It could be no more than that, that had them talking so intimately, with their heads together.
“I understand your own estate is close by Lea Park, my lord?”
Drake turned to his dinner companion. “Indeed, that is true, Miss Swinley. I am currently having some renovations done to make it more fit for habitation. It has been empty for some years and neglected terribly. There is much to do, but I am starting where my heart lies, I am afraid, rather than where common sense would dictate. The library is being entirely refitted with oak shelves by a carpenter, a fellow ex-soldier, actually. He was looking—”
“La, I never go near the library!” Miss Swinley laughed, gaily, laying one bare white hand daringly over his, where it rested on the Irish lace tablecloth. “Mama says that too much reading leads to brain fevers!”
“You seem not at all at risk of that disease,” Drake said, stifling his impatience.
That remark earned him a look of reproof from his mother.
“Were you not thinking of going to Thorne House to check on the progress of your renovation, my dear?” she said.
“I was,” Drake replied. “I might go tomorrow. It appears that the weather will hold for at least a day or two more, and I want to check in with Stanley before too long; I have some new plans I want him to consider. And I want to see how far he and the other fellows have gotten.”
“Tomorrow sounds like an ideal day,” Lady Leathorne said. She glanced brightly around the table and said, as if it had just occurred to her, “Why do you young people, the four of you, not make a day of it? Take a picnic lunch and dine there. You could see the estate and still be back before dark. It is not above twenty-five or thirty miles.”
“I would love that above all things, Lady Leathorne,” Miss Swinley said, her pretty face glowing in the candlelight. She turned to her mother. “May I, Mama?”
“Certainly, my dear. I long for a comfortable coze with Jessica,” Lady Swinley said, casting a glance at her old friend with a delighted expression on her narrow face. “Just be sure to carry a parasol for your delicate complexion and stay out of the wind.”
“It is settled then, if Lord Conroy does not object?” Lady Leathorne nodded toward the gentleman in question.
“I think it a marvelous plan!” he said, with a genial smile on his attractive face.
Drake’s head whirled. From a comfortable day on his own, riding to and exploring his own estate, it had become a pleasure party for Miss Swinley. And they had included but had not asked Miss Becket! Whether she was a paid companion or not, she still deserved a say in the affair. He turned and looked down the table, and pointedly said, “Miss Becket, an outing tomorrow to my estate has been proposed. Would the anticipation of such a trip please you?”
Her cheeks suddenly rosy, the delightful blush that always seemed near flooding her face, she nodded, starting the soft ringlets around her face dancing merrily. “I would consider it a privilege, my lord.”
• • •
True sat staring out the window at the moonlit grounds of Lea Park. It had been a long, tiring day, with traveling, and then the demands of company and dinner, and conversation in the drawing room after dinner. And yet she was wakeful, restless in a way that was not like her.
A gentle tap at her door, and True called out, “Come in.”
Arabella swept into the room in her lacy nightrail, wrap, and morocco slippers. “I’m so glad you are still awake, True. I cannot sleep! I feel so agitated, and I don’t know why.”
True patted the window seat beside her and Bella, as True called her in their private moments, assumed the other corner. Heavy green drapes curtained the window but were pulled back and held in place by gold silk cord. True had not expected to be kept in such splendor, for when she visited Swinley Manor, her cousin—the mother, not the daughter—always made sure that she got the smallest, darkest room that was still on the family floor. But here at Lea Park she was being treated not as a poor relation but as an honored guest. It was a novel and welcome experience.
It was not that she really minded being often forgotten and seldom considered in people’s plans. Good-humored resignation more accurately reflected her feelings on that matter. It did not affect her firm belief that as one of God’s creatures she was the equal of any man or woman of any rank. That belief was radically different from the Church of England teachings she had grown up with, but she could think for herself, after all. That is why God gave her a brain. But she did understand the way of the world, and in that scheme she was a genteel but poor spinster lady. Which was why Lord Drake’s deliberate asking of her feelings on the proposed trip had touched her so deeply. His was a nobility of the heart, not just of rank, and she had never met his equal, in any sense.
“Why are you agitated, dear?” True said, resorting to the endearment she had used when Arabella was a little girl, and True her older, wiser cousin. True had a younger sister near Arabella’s age, and the three cousins had spent much time together, though that had not been so for four years or more, ever since Bella’s removal from the vicarage in preparation for her come-out into London society.
That debut was delayed a year after Lord Swinley’s death, but Arabella had spent that year of mourning, True had always thought, in being drilled by her mother in all the ways to attract, flirt with and tease gentlemen.
Frowning, Arabella shed her slippers and tucked her feet up underneath her. “I don’t know. What do you think of Lord Drake, True? Is he not handsome? But he seems so very ferocious sometimes. He almost glares!”
“You’re not afraid of him, are you?” True could not believe that of her cousin. Bella was up to any rig when she was a child, and True’s younger sister, Faithful, would often have to run for help when their brave cousin got stuck up in a tree, or was being chased by a swarm of bees, or was surrounded in a field by a herd of cattle. It almost seemed impossible that that headstrong, independent child True had loved had become this elegant and sometimes icy young lady, but there were still occasional flashes of the impetuous girl she had been.
“Nnno,” Bella said, worrying at the skin that edged her thumbnail. When she realized what she was doing, she buried her hands in the frothy lace of her wrap. “I am certainly not afraid of him. He is just so different from when I first met him. You know, he bought his colors so young and is so much older than me that I never met him until last year, though our mothers have been friends this age. Mama and I have visited Lea Park before, but Lord Drake was always away.” She clasped her hands together and looked starry-eyed for a moment. “Oh, True, if you think he is handsome now, you should have seen him in his scarlet regimentals, and without that repulsive cane and limp. Devastating! And not only that, but he was so gallant, and courteous and . . . and I never saw anyone in London I liked half so well. Except maybe Lord Sweetan, but even he . . . well, he just was not like Lord Drake.”
Miss Truelove Beckons (Classic Regency Romances Book 12) Page 4
