The man she chose would be nothing like Bartholomew. He’d be some damnably happy fellow from a happy family, and have many happy memories of never having been to war or lost someone he cherished. He’d enjoy racing and dancing, make love like a stallion, and be the proud owner of both of his legs. In short, he’d be perfect, too.
Daphne deserved nothing less.
He slid another glance in her direction. She gripped the side of the curricle, staring out at the sprawling park and endless carriages with cautious green eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck. He’d thought she would love Hyde Park. Instead, she looked half terrified. As though instead of finding the serpentine throng invigorating, as he did, she found the crowd nerve-wracking. She looked like she might throw herself bodily from the curricle rather than spend another moment promenading in the park.
His jaw tightened. Not only did they fail to resemble a besotted couple, Daphne’s current expression wouldn’t look like she enjoyed his company at all. His cheeks burned. Perhaps she didn’t. He ought to distract her with more pleasant topics.
He cleared his throat. “How have you been enjoying London?”
“I haven’t.” She made a frustrated sound and turned to meet his eyes. “Katherine is lovely, and her house of course is magnificent, but it isn’t home. Not for me. I’ve done my best to turn my chamber into a study, but the wallpaper is too pretty to affix documents to it and the noise from the balcony is incredibly distracting while I’m attending to my correspondence. There’s a park just outside, with any number of horses and children and pie vendors causing ruckus at all hours. How can anyone work in such conditions?”
He stared at her, nonplussed. Everything he loved about London, she hated. The finery, the food, the fun. His stomach clenched. ’Twas yet another reason no one in their right mind would believe them slated for marriage. Even he couldn’t believe they were that incompatible. The attraction between them had been too palpable. For a moment, he had even thought… He shook his head.
“Never say you’ve spent every moment you’re not with me focused on nothing but your projects.”
Her eyes flashed. “Of course I have. Someone needs to champion these people’s rights. ’Tis who I am and what I do.”
He raised his brows and turned his gaze back to the road in silence. She found his sense of charity lacking. The implication was clear. His fingers tightened on the reins in annoyance. And envy. Until Waterloo, he, too, had known who and what he was. Now he had no idea. And he’d managed to offend her in the process.
No doubt she believed he thought her silly for choosing to fight iniquity instead of taking a husband. She was wrong. He did not consider her ideals silly at all.
He thought them futile.
One woman couldn’t save everyone. An entire army hadn’t even been able to save everyone. Some wars just couldn’t be won.
She arched a brow. “How have you spent your valuable time since last I saw you? Drinking champagne and frequenting gentlemen’s clubs? What is it that you do?”
He smiled tightly. “Absolutely nothing.”
He knew his answer would infuriate her as much as if he’d said “rutting with whores” or “designing a new waistcoat.” Her belief in the potential goodness of others was too entrenched. By nature, she interpreted any fun-seeking activity as willfully ignoring orphans or worker safety or rookery famine. No doubt she judged him just as frivolous and useless as the rest of London. And she was right. There were better uses for his time.
But he wasn’t her. He wasn’t even him anymore. No longer a rake, no longer a soldier, no longer a twin. He was nothing. As dull and lifeless as the wooden prosthesis strapped to his knee. A heartless man carved to look like the real thing, but empty inside. Too tired to be a martyr.
“Let’s not argue.” He leaned over. “When there are witnesses about, you should at least pretend to tolerate me.”
She tossed him a saucy smile. “I do like you. Very much. You were my hero before you ever left for war. I just thought you of all people would understand.” Her shoulders eased. “But you’re right It’s not even necessary that we agree. By next month, it won’t matter.”
True. The warmth of her remarks faded. By next month, he would be back in his townhouse. Alone with his thoughts and his regrets. “Will you be returning to Maidstone?”
Her nose wrinkled. “I can’t. Cousin Steele owns the cottage and I cannot live under the same roof. Not after deceiving him. Besides, that’s not where I can do my best work.”
He straightened, his heart suddenly light. Perhaps there was hope. “You’ll be staying here in London?”
“Hardly.” She shook her head. “I will go wherever I’m needed most. South Tyneside first, then Leicester. I’m unlikely to see London again for a long time.”
Or him, in other words. Bartholomew’s fingers tightened around the reins. What had he expected? That a few weeks with him would trap her in London’s web? Leave her hopelessly addicted to his company? Make her fall in love with a man who wasn’t even certain he deserved the emotion?
“I’ll miss you, though.” Her soft words pierced his armor. “Even more than I did when you first left Maidstone. I didn’t even think such a feat possible.” She laughed sadly. “It seems the jest is on me.”
“The jest is on both of us,” he admitted gruffly. “I wish you well, but I do not look forward to your departure.”
Several minutes passed in silence.
He wished he hadn’t spoken. Hadn’t admitted that he cared. Every other relationship he’d ever cared about ended in shambles. He didn’t wish to add Daphne to that list.
She tilted her head, her green eyes curious. “And you? How will you spend your time?”
He pretended to think it over. “Perhaps I’ll take up coal mining or fabric weaving so that we’ll meet again.”
She stuck out her tongue. “Rubbish. You’d get your cravat dirty.”
He shuddered. “Thank God you warned me in time. Fitz would have my head on a silver platter.”
Her eyes laughed at him. “One can always trust Bartholomew to be Bartholomew. You’ll stay here in the city, I presume?”
His jaw tightened. Did she truly think him as featherbrained as that? Perhaps it was for the best. He couldn’t disappoint her if she didn’t hold any expectations.
“London is where the best tailors are. I wouldn’t dream of living anywhere else.”
Her expression grew pensive. “And your parents?”
“Should stay as far away from me as possible.” As should Daphne, if she wished to escape the inevitable hurt he caused everyone he loved. The visit with his parents should have illustrated how badly he’d disappointed them. “What did you think when you saw them?”
Her gaze softened. “That they love you very much.”
He scoffed and returned his gaze to the road, unable to meet her eyes. “They did. Before I lost Edmund.”
“They still do. You cannot possibly have failed to notice that your mother—”
“Lives in a state of constant hysteria? I noticed. It’s my fault.” He hated that his tight knit family had shattered in the space of a single moment. He scraped a hand through his hair. If only there was some way he and his mother could be closer without leading to madness for them both. “My presence in Maidstone wouldn’t be beneficial to either of us. I do not require a nursemaid.”
“She misses you.”
“She misses Edmund. She thinks I can replace him by being both of us. By filling the hole and being me, too.” He took a deep breath. “I cannot.”
Daphne’s voice lowered. “Your father?”
“Is empty now. I disappointed him, and Edmund broke his heart. I cannot fix that.” His smile was mirthless. “I can’t fix anything.”
She frowned. “It wasn’t your fault—”
“Don’t,” he snapped. “You weren’t there, and you aren’t me. Don’t presume to tell me how I should feel.”
She fell silent.
He
set his jaw and fixed his gaze on the horizon.
Shite. He hadn’t meant to snarl at her, but it wasn’t her brother that had been talked into fighting someone else’s war and then left on a battlefield to die. It wasn’t her family who was too broken to speak to each other. If Bartholomew could undo the past, he would.
His shoulders slumped. None of it was worth it.
So little ever was.
Her miners and weavers would be no exception, unfortunately. But ’twas not his duty to crush her dreams. She’d learn soon enough how the world truly worked. Her dogged idealism and precious causes were all well and good, but if three years in the army had taught him anything, it was that one cannot save everyone, no matter how hard one tries.
“Blackpool!” called a voice alongside the carriage.
A distraction. Thank God.
“Who goes there?” Bartholomew leaned his head out of the curricle and faked a shudder. “Good Lord. Not even a mother could love a mug that ugly.”
The Marquess of Sainsbury’s handsome face split into a grin. “Good to see you back, old man. A few of us are off to race phaetons here in a few moments. I see you’ve better company this time, but we’ll meet again next week if you think your ancient nag can manage Rotten Row. I’ve twenty pounds that says it can’t.”
“A snail could outpace you,” Bartholomew shot back. “But I’d hate for you to lose your money. ’Tis the only way you’ll ever attract a bride.”
The marquess laughed. “How on earth did you get yours? Congratulations to both of you. I never thought I’d see the day!”
Bartholomew kept his smile pasted on as the marquess snapped his reins and rode away. Pensive, he turned to look at Daphne. The sunlight caught her golden curls, softening the no-nonsense exterior she liked to project. Her lips were rosy and her cheeks flushed pink from the winter wind. Her warm green eyes were intelligent and discerning, and looked back at him with the same intensity that he gazed at her.
“You are one of the good ones,” he said softly. “You could have a real husband if you wished.”
She shook her head and glanced away. “It doesn’t matter what I wish. I wouldn’t fit into a husband’s life. Nor would he fit into mine.”
He nodded. Perhaps. And perhaps not. Someone out there had to be a match.
She was right that it would be difficult to reconcile a wife’s duties with her current obsessions, but he couldn’t imagine her never finding love. There was passion hidden within her. Passion for more than displaced weavers and children’s rights. Perhaps even passion waiting to be explored by the right man.
His heart beat faster. The other night at the musicale, there had been several moments where it had taken all his self-control not to tilt her face up to his and kiss her. Even now, her arms looked soft and inviting. She smelled like heaven. And her lush pink mouth was simply begging to be tasted.
But she was not to be his.
The two of them were beyond incompatible as a married couple. On that, they could agree. But he imagined they might have quite a bit in common when it came to matters of the flesh. He swallowed hard.
How different things might have been if they’d only been thrown together back when he was a whole man.
Chapter 15
A few days later, Bartholomew found himself calling upon the Ross house once again.
This time, it wasn’t to whisk Daphne off to a musicale or for a drive in Hyde Park. They wouldn’t be leaving the town house. This was the night of the soirée Lambley had referred to weeks ago, when he’d asked Daphne if she would be in town visiting his cousin.
Everyone, it seemed, was visiting Lambley’s cousin.
Carriages had queued from around the next block. Hackney carriages, private coaches, even a donkey cart. Bartholomew couldn’t imagine what all these people had in common, much less why they’d all be under one roof. He was intrigued by the mix.
For once, perhaps he wouldn’t be the oddity.
The butler motioned him in the door without questioning whether Bartholomew had an invitation. Fortunate, that. Given that he didn’t have one.
On the other hand, it didn’t look like any of the guests were being questioned too closely, or even at all. They were simply welcomed in, relieved of their coats or bonnets, and motioned to join the others in the parlor.
The amount of people crammed into one spacious, but clearly inadequate room put even the annual Sheffield Christmastide ball to shame. In fact, Bartholomew could have sworn he’d glimpsed Lord Sheffield himself on the other side of the teeming horde. Perhaps he and his wife were taking notes on how to outdo themselves next year.
“You came,” said a surprised voice from just behind him.
Daphne. He tucked her hand around his upper arm and lowered his lips to her hair to breathe in her scent. “Of course.”
Was it scandalous to feather a light kiss against those sweet-smelling red-gold ringlets? Perhaps.
Was he going to do it anyway? Absolutely.
He lifted his head to survey the motley crowd in wonder. Even Vauxhall wasn’t this diverse. “Who are these people?”
Daphne lifted a shoulder in sympathy. “The only people I know in London are you, Katherine, and Lambley.”
“But what kind of party is this?”
“A Katherine party,” Daphne answered with a little smile. “Katherine is… eccentric. She doesn’t think there is any reason why earls and poets and solicitors can’t mingle.” Her eyes softened. “It’s why I love her.”
An elderly woman with white powdered hair caught his attention. She made a beeline straight toward them. “Daphne, is that you, dear? Introduce me to this fine gentleman at once. Hoarding the handsome ones is strictly verboten.”
“And have you steal him from me?” Daphne’s smile widened indulgently. “Mrs. Havens, this is my fiancé, Major Bartholomew Blackpool. Major Blackpool, this dear lady is Katherine’s great-aunt and the widow of the previous Maidstone vicar. Mrs. Havens is a legend.”
The name clicked in Bartholomew’s brain. “Of course! Mrs. Havens, how wonderful to meet you. Daphne’s father was vicar in my earliest memories, but I cannot recall a time when you and your husband weren’t spoken of with great admiration. It is an honor to meet you.”
Mrs. Havens beamed at him, then stage-whispered to Daphne, “Handsome and charming. Hold tight to this one.”
Daphne’s hand tightened reflexively about Bartholomew’s arm. “Of course, ma’am. I wouldn’t dream otherwise.”
One of the footmen passed by with a tray of champagne flutes. Mrs. Havens stopped him to make certain both Bartholomew and Daphne took a glass.
“Moderation, not libation,” she cautioned with a wag of her finger. “Especially you, Daphne. Don’t let London go to your head.”
“No, ma’am.” Daphne shook her head gravely. “I certainly won’t.”
Emptiness filled Bartholomew’s chest. He doubted Daphne would stay in London a day more than necessary after she inherited her portion. She was too eager to leave. To seek out a better life than what she could find here.
“Blackpool!” The Duke of Lambley emerged from the sea of faces. He nodded in the direction of Daphne’s fingers curled about Bartholomew’s arm. “Cupid knock you off your cloud, did he?”
Bartholomew paused, unsure whether this was meant as a gibe for having “stolen” Daphne away from the others, but the last thing he wished was to cause a scene. He gave his best careless smile. “Cupid’s arrow was true. I fell hard, but as you see, I always land on my feet. Or foot, as the case may be.”
Lambley chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Losing a leg would slow anyone down. Of course you couldn’t dodge the arrow. Well, they say reformed rakes make the best husbands. Good to see you cheerful again. Congratulations to both of you. You make a lovely couple.”
Daphne’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Thank you.”
As Lambley glided away, Daphne frowned at his retreating back. “He should not have made a
teasing comment about your leg.”
Bartholomew placed his untouched champagne glass on the tray of a passing footman. “I made a teasing comment about my wounded leg.”
“You should not have, either.”
He shrugged. Jokes were all he had. “Ignoring it won’t grow it back.”
Before Daphne could respond, her friend Miss Ross slipped from the crowd to join them.
Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright. “Good evening, Major. I do so love a party. How are you enjoying your evening so far?”
“It’s… overwhelming,” he admitted. “And impressive. Do you actually know all these people?”
“Of course!” She moved closer so that she could gesture without others noticing. “You see the older gentleman with dark hair and a cleft chin?”
Bartholomew scanned the crowd, then nodded. “The one who looks like John Kemble, the actor?”
“That is Mr. Kemble. He manages the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. Which is why he’s at the opposite end of the room as that young gentleman with the foppish hair, the one sneaking all the biscuits from the refreshment table.”
“Is he another actor?”
“Heavens, no. Mr. Wyatt is too serious by far, when there are no biscuits about. He designed the other Theatre Royal, in Drury Lane. He and Mr. Kemble have already exchanged several heated words about parquet and acoustics.” Miss Ross grinned as if this were a hallmark of a successful party. “Can I help with any introductions? If neither the business nor the performance aspect of theatre pique your interest, surely the wonders of Egypt catch your fancy?”
Bartholomew arched an eyebrow. “Are there mummies or a misplaced pharaoh somewhere amongst all those people?”
“Close.” Miss Ross leaned closer. “Look for a portly gentleman by the piano. Balding, with tufts of gray hair over his ears? Mr. Bullock is a naturalist, the antiquarian behind the Egyptian Hall in Piccadilly.” She lowered her voice toward Daphne. “I tried to get him to let me help manage the exhibit when it first opened. The knave categorically refused.”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 43
