The wince didn’t appear to be borne of pain. Nor did he even have a limp. With or without the handsome swordstick he occasionally carried, the man was more graceful now than Daphne had ever been. So why the wince?
She studied him even more minutely. The barely perceptible tic was more a grimace than a wince, and only occurred when he moved his right leg.
His missing right leg.
She tilted her head as she considered his prosthesis. Its wooden calf was just as shapely and equally concealed behind stockings and shiny leather footwear. She’d been told the ankle joint even boasted catgut tendons for greater flexibility and aesthetics.
The craftsmanship was a mix of artistry and the latest in modern technology. It certainly wasn’t anything to be ashamed of. Just by glancing at him, one would never guess that everything below the knee was false.
By listening to him, however… Daphne frowned. Now that she thought upon it, there was a distinctive snick as the articulated foot section clicked into place. Her eyes widened.
Up until now, she’d assumed his disinclination to rejoin society—much less to dance—was due to the very understandable concern that his false limb might not support his weight or activities, and he might injure himself even further in a fall.
She now suspected what he suffered was a visceral fear of humiliation.
He’d been a rake, a dandy, and a soldier. All three aspects had garnered him nothing but admiration from his peers. He no longer fit those roles because he no longer felt the part. Instead of being proud of his body, he was shamed by it. He’d obviously been mortified that morning in the vicarage when his leg had collapsed in front of witnesses. But it hadn’t been his fault.
Daphne doubted she could’ve withstood the force of Mrs. Blackpool launching herself deadweight into Daphne’s arms. Anyone would have fallen. Not everyone would have leapt back up. Bartholomew’s impairment hadn’t made him weaker. It had made him stronger.
He was still achieving victories that would have destroyed another man. The only person who thought him lesser for his injury was Bartholomew himself.
She edged closer to where he conversed with the other dandies.
His blue eyes sparkled when he saw her and he held out a hand to pull her closer to the group. “Have you all met my ravishing fiancée? This delightful young lady is Miss Daphne Vaughan. Darling, these ruffians are Mr. Dunham, Mr. Bost, and Mr. Underhill. Pay them no mind.”
“Betrothed!” teased one of the men. “Don’t you know wives are expensive?”
“They cost an arm and a leg,” Bartholomew agreed innocently, then winked as he gestured toward his prosthesis. “I’ve already paid the first installment.”
The gentlemen roared with laughter.
Daphne heroically refrained from throwing a slipper at her betrothed’s head.
His constant self-deprecation finally made sense. Bartholomew didn’t make light of his loss because he didn’t care what people thought, but because he very much did. He tried to belittle himself before others could do so, in order to save his pride the blow of public humiliation.
She wished she could shake some sense into him. Such efforts were misguided and unnecessary. The only people who didn’t flat out adore him were the ones who were jealous of him, like that horrid Phineas Mapleton.
As soon as Bartholomew realized that, he’d regain the only thing he was truly missing: his confidence. When would he realize he needn’t poke fun at himself?
She frowned at the dandies. Was she the first one to understand it took just as much courage to face his peers with gregariousness and wit on their own battleground as it did to purchase a commission to sail off to war?
That he could do so with charm and a swagger made him seem even more of a legend, even larger than life, than when he’d been at the height of his popularity three and a half years earlier. His determination was awe-inspiring. If he’d been irresistibly arrogant before… once he regained his confidence, he’d be nigh on unstoppable.
Already there were a gaggle of interested ladies making eyes at him from the other side of the exhibition hall. Daphne’s fingernails bit into her palms. Perhaps she should encourage him to make his leg-shackle jokes a little louder.
No. She needed to cry off, not stake her claim. In fact, she needed him to cry off. Realizing he could return to his previous unencumbered rakish life might help him do that.
She swallowed her jealousy as a pair of giggling young ladies wiggled up to him to present their fingers for a kiss. Who cared if they ignored her? Daphne wouldn’t be around much longer.
Once she and Bartholomew went their separate ways, they would both be free to do as they pleased, to be whatever kind of person they wished. Separating was the only way to ensure happiness for both of them.
She bared her teeth at the simpering young ladies. They were too enthralled with Bartholomew to notice the mousy woman on his arm.
It didn’t matter. Soon she wouldn’t have to witness such blatant flirtation. Soon she would be halfway across the country, crusading for better causes. She was winning. She’d gammoned her heartless guardian and would soon have her independence. Freedom was within reach.
She just wished it didn’t feel like the only one she’d tricked was herself.
Chapter 20
Just as Bartholomew finished the last of his strengthening exercises, his butler entered the parlor bearing a platter of afternoon mail.
Crabtree dangled it toward the fire. “Shall I torch the post at once?”
Bartholomew held out his hand in silence.
“As you wish, sir.” His face carefully devoid of smugness, Crabtree placed the stack into Bartholomew’s hand and quit the parlor without a backward glance.
Bartholomew hauled himself up from the floor and into a chair to read. He hadn’t burnt correspondence without opening it since the day he’d left for Kent to rescue Daphne.
Nonetheless, Crabtree never missed an opportunity to point out his master’s previous obstinacy by politely enquiring whether he ought to set fire to every missive that crossed the threshold.
Ignoring his butler, Bartholomew flipped through the pile. The topmost items were invitations to upcoming events. Another musicale, a few dinner parties… the Caxton ball. The corner of his mouth tilted as an idea formed.
He ought to take Daphne. A woman ought to experience at least one ball.
There was nothing so grand back in Maidstone. If Daphne followed through on her goal to become a nomadic crusader for England’s voiceless poor, she was unlikely to have another opportunity to attend such a rout. Much as she denied it, he suspected she did adore a country-dance.
If he’d thought he could do it justice without embarrassing himself—or her—he would certainly have tried. He already regretted turning down an opportunity to have her in his arms while he still could. No London in her future meant no Bartholomew in her future.
His jaw tightened. He was finding himself ever more disinclined to accept such a fate.
Less obvious was what to do about it.
Daphne wanted her independence. The right to marry when and if she found someone worthy of her love. The freedom to determine what to do with her life and where to live it. Even if that meant never seeing her again.
London was his home. He belonged here. He would never have the sort of life he’d imagined for himself when he’d been younger, but that didn’t mean he could no longer enjoy the city. Hope unfurled in his chest. Dinner parties, card games, friends… He was still welcome.
Not at Almack’s, of course. The marriage mart would be as disinterested in him as he was in it. A broken soldier wasn’t meant for the altar, but he now realized that didn’t mean he needed to close himself off completely. London had something for everyone.
He broke the seal on the next letter and bolted upright. The report. A fortnight ago, he’d hired a man to investigate the facts behind Daphne’s pet causes. He read through the front in dismay. His jaw dropped when he turned the page
. The reality was even worse than Daphne had claimed.
The issues she championed were more than real. They were positively hopeless. He flipped to the next page and winced at the numbers. At the suffering. Someone needed to help these people.
He swallowed. He should never have discounted her fervent charity work as a mere obsession. Daphne deserved his respect, not his indulgence. Every one of her concerns were valid. His stomach twisted. She was right about everything.
Horrified, he scanned the pages even faster. Every paragraph was more appalling than the last. There was no possible way that one young woman, no matter how intrepid, might save the orphans, protect the miners, employ the weavers, curb wheat inflation, calm the Luddites, improve workhouses… It would take an army of Daphnes to even make a dent.
He closed the report with a shudder. He could no longer stand between her and her goals. His idle, self-pitying life was scarcely a nobler cause. He slipped the document into his waistcoat pocket. There had to be some way he could help.
If so, he might not need a pretext to stay in contact with Daphne after all. If they were both crusaders, perhaps they wouldn’t have to say goodbye.
Quickly, he sifted through the rest of the post. The last letter in the pile bore a seal from the Duke of Ravenwood’s estate. Eyebrows rising, Bartholomew broke the wax.
He hadn’t seen the Duke of Ravenwood since Oliver’s wedding. Not unusual, in and of itself. Of their core circle of friends, Ravenwood had always been the most serious. He’d inherited the dukedom at a young age and rarely attended frivolous Society entertainments.
Ravenwood did, however, cherish his friends. He, Xavier, Oliver, Edmund, and Bartholomew had once been inseparable.
Perhaps the duke’s sister had mentioned running into Bartholomew at Katherine Ross’s crush the other night. The soirée had been so well attended, Bartholomew almost wondered that Ravenwood hadn’t made room in his schedule. Miss Ross had apparently managed to wrangle every other Londoner into accepting the invitation.
Smiling, Bartholomew unfolded the letter.
Blackpool,
Come to Ravenwood House at your earliest convenience. We need to talk about S.
Ravenwood
Sarah. Bartholomew’s flesh chilled. He had failed her completely. Heart sinking, he leaned his head against the back of his chair and closed his eyes.
There was nothing to talk about. He’d broken his promise to bring Edmund home alive.
When he’d learned she was pregnant, he did not offer himself as a means to save her reputation and give her baby a name. He couldn’t.
And now her life was over. Bartholomew’s niece or nephew would be born a bastard. His parents would lose their minds. Her friends would abandon her. All because Edmund had followed his brother to the ends of the earth.
Bartholomew tossed the note aside and rubbed his face. What was left to say?
He pushed to his feet. He was no coward. Whatever the situation, he had to face it head on. It was his fault Edmund had joined the army and his fault Edmund hadn’t left the battlefield alive. Sarah’s predicament wasn’t going to get any better. Bartholomew would do whatever he could to help. He owed her that much.
He owed it to Edmund.
Within the hour, Bartholomew was seated in the duke’s private study.
Ravenwood dismissed his servants and shut the door before taking a seat across from Bartholomew. His face was drawn, his cheeks pallid.
None of which was helping to calm Bartholomew’s growing trepidation.
The duke steepled his fingers. “When my sister married Lord Sheffield last month, she left Ravenwood House in clockwork condition.”
Bartholomew furrowed his brow. Ravenwood wanted to waste time with small talk before discussing the matter at hand? ’Twas so unlike the duke, it took a moment for Bartholomew to gather the wits to respond. “I believe we can all agree that Lady Amelia whips everything she touches into clockwork precision.”
“Just so.” Ravenwood nodded slowly, then drew up straight. “My home is now without a mistress. Sarah and her unborn baby need a name. I have decided to give them one.”
Bartholomew’s mouth fell open. “You’re making Sarah your duchess?”
“Do you think her unworthy of the position?”
“Of course not.” Bartholomew sputtered. “She’s been one of us since we were children. My brother was going to marry her.”
Ravenwood’s voice was grave. “You think I should refrain out of respect for your brother?”
“No, I…” Bartholomew shoved a hand through his hair. “Every single day, I ask myself what Edmund would want. The answer, of course, is the safety and happiness of his intended and their child.”
Ravenwood inclined his head. “But?”
Bartholomew hesitated. “I’ve thought of marrying her myself, for the reasons you state. I’ve denounced my own selfishness for failing to do so. Edmund was my brother. The child in Sarah’s womb is part of my family. Why should you be the one to sacrifice your future happiness?”
“Who said I…” But even Ravenwood couldn’t complete the thought. Of the four friends, he was the romantic who had always sworn to only marry for love. Thus far, it hadn’t happened. Now it never would.
“Do you love her?” Bartholomew asked quietly.
Ravenwood looked away. “We’re all fond of Sarah.”
“Don’t play cute,” Bartholomew chided him. “Do you love her?”
Ravenwood arched a brow. “Since when do you care about love?”
“Since recently,” Bartholomew admitted. “But you’ve searched for it your whole life. Are you prepared to throw your dreams away to help a friend?”
“Isn’t that what friendship is?”
Was it? Bartholomew tapped his fingers against the armrest and tried to think of a situation that would work out for everybody. He failed to come up with one. “I’m not trying to talk you out of marrying. I can’t think of anything better that could happen to Sarah or her baby. I just hate to see you miserable.”
“That is a trade we were both willing to make,” came the duke’s clipped reply.
Bartholomew straightened. “You’ve already spoken with her?”
Ravenwood laughed humorlessly. “She was harder to convince than you were. We have never thought of each other as more than friends, and she fears the union will necessarily result in me resenting her or the child for taking away my opportunity to marry for love.”
Bartholomew winced. Those were very good points. “In the end, you prevailed?”
“The babe prevailed.” The duke’s smile was grim. “She won’t get a better offer. Or any offer. The midwife believes Sarah is just a few weeks away from giving birth. I am their only hope.” He lifted a shoulder. “What choice do we have?”
Bartholomew’s heart twisted. When he and the others had purchased their commissions into the army, they had pitied Ravenwood for having to stay home and mind a dukedom rather than rush headlong into adventure.
The war hadn’t brought any of them glory. Nor had a dukedom let Ravenwood escape unscathed, evidently. It turned out there were plenty of consequences to go around.
Ravenwood brushed invisible dust from his breeches. “Can I count on you to be a witness? You may say no, if you feel your loyalties are too divided.”
“My loyalty is to you and Sarah.” Bartholomew shifted uncomfortably. Of course he would stand up as witness to two of his dearest friends giving up their dreams in order to rescue the future of an unborn child.
He swallowed. Who was to say they wouldn’t find love?
As the duke had pointed out, they were all fond of her. She would make any man a good wife.
And as for Ravenwood, what was not to love? He was one of the finest men of Bartholomew’s acquaintance. A touch solemn, perhaps. Attentive to duty, certainly. But also clever, kindhearted, honest…
Certainly a better choice than if Bartholomew had offered himself in the duke’s place. Ravenwood was a whole
man in every sense, not a patchwork monster missing half his leg and half his heart.
Bartholomew’s chest tightened. He could never marry. A daughter would need a father to dance with, to swing her up on a pony or teach her to swim. A son would need a father to spar with, to toss him into the air as a baby and to race across the countryside astride new stallions. And a wife…
He swallowed hard. Years before, he hadn’t been worth considering for marriage because he was too self-centered, too much of a rake. Now he wasn’t worth considering because he wasn’t much of anything at all.
“Thank you,” the duke said quietly. “Your support means everything.”
Bartholomew exhaled. “As does yours.”
“Come.” Ravenwood rose to his feet. “I’ll see you out.”
Bartholomew pushed up from the chair and followed him down the corridor.
The front door opened just as they reached the entryway. Ravenwood’s butler helped Lady Amelia inside. Her eyes sparkled to see the two of them together.
“Brother dear. Major Blackpool.” She bussed Ravenwood on the cheek before turning to Bartholomew. “How bad of you to be leaving just as I arrive!”
He bowed. “Perhaps we will see each other again the next time Miss Ross sponsors a fete.”
Lady Amelia laughed. “Perhaps so. It was certainly lovely to meet your fiancée. Where will you be getting married?”
Nowhere, of course. But he would wait until Daphne officially cried off before letting anyone know.
“My parents would disown me if I wed outside of Maidstone,” he said instead. That much was true. “It was all I could do to talk them out of begging Ravenwood to help me procure a special license so we can have the wedding in my parents’ rear garden.”
Ravenwood’s eyes widened in surprise. “If you had but mentioned—”
“The banns and a church are perfectly fine,” Bartholomew assured him. And also perfectly unnecessary. He turned back to Amelia. “How are you adapting to married life? Do you miss lording over Ravenwood House with your iron fist?”
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 47
