The Dukes of War: Complete Collection

by Ridley, Erica

  “I miss having something productive to do with my time,” she admitted with a smile. “My husband’s estate is shockingly efficient.”

  An idea began to form in the back of Bartholomew’s mind. “It sounds like you could use a project or two. Have you ever heard of a Davy lamp?”

  “I have not.” Lady Amelia tugged a small journal and the nub of a pencil from her reticule. “Tell me everything.”

  Ravenwood chuckled. “Mind your step, Blackpool. Whatever plot you’re brewing, Amelia is bound to overtake it entirely.”

  “Perhaps that’s just the thing.” Bartholomew considered the viscountess in silence. She would be a formidable ally. “Daphne is passionate about charity work. She has more projects than any one woman could reasonably hope to accomplish. I was thinking to myself that what she needed was an army—”

  “—when you realized all she needs is a lieutenant,” Lady Amelia finished with a sharp nod. “Say no more. I shall assemble the army.”

  “Told you,” Ravenwood murmured. “She’ll have everything sorted by suppertime.”

  “I wish I thought it were possible for things to be sorted within our lifetimes,” Bartholomew said. “But if we get enough people working together toward a common goal…”

  His blood pulsed faster. If Lady Amelia could amass an army, perhaps Daphne wouldn’t have to travel the country, immersing herself in potentially dangerous situations. With London as a command center, perhaps she could stay right here.

  With him.

  Hope flooded him for the first time. What if he could give Daphne a reason to stay? A reason not to break the betrothal after all? Perhaps even a reason to love him?

  “No need to take notes.” He yanked his investigator’s report from his waistcoat pocket and presented the roll of papers to Lady Amelia. “That should give you a fair idea of what Daphne’s hoping to accomplish. Take a look, think it over, and perhaps the three of us can meet to discuss your ideas in a week or two?”

  “In a week or two, we’ll have an army of charity soldiers at your fiancée’s disposal.” Amelia tucked her journal and the report into her reticule. “May I just say how refreshing it is that you intend to help, rather than hinder, a wife who knows what she wants? The world could use more men like you, Major Blackpool.”

  Ravenwood grinned. “Lord help us. London’s going to be awash in strong-willed, opinionated ladies when the fashionable Major Blackpool starts a new trend.”

  “I, for one, think he chose wisely.” Lady Amelia dipped a curtsey. “I shall be honored to do charity work with your wife. And I do hope it starts a trend.”

  Bartholomew’s smile faltered. If only he could start such a trend. But he hadn’t chosen Daphne any more than she’d chosen him. Yet he could no longer hide the truth. If he could choose a wife…

  It could only be Daphne.

  Chapter 21

  Daphne wished she could drum up the proper level of enthusiasm about the Caxton ball. That it would be a sumptuous gala, more magical than anything she’d previously experienced, she had no doubt.

  She also knew it would be her last.

  Her birthday loomed around the corner. She had an appointment with the bank and a solicitor set up for that same afternoon.

  All that was left was packing her trunk and purchasing passage on the first mail coach heading toward Lancashire. She’d already prioritized her list and mapped out the best route to visit the most urgent cases personally. By this time next week, she’d be gone.

  All that was good news. Wonderful news. There was no reason at all for the great yawning emptiness inside at the thought of finally realizing her hard-won dreams.

  No reason except Bartholomew.

  He was escorting her to tonight’s ball. Escorting her, Katherine, and Mrs. Havens, to be precise. He’d scowled at her as though it were her fault they required extra chaperonage because he no longer believed the presence of a mere maid could stop him from kissing her.

  She hoped the chaperones would fail.

  She was tired of being proper. Tired of pretending she didn’t want Bartholomew. Tired of him protecting her from his passions when what she truly wished was to be swept away by them. To have a few moments in his embrace. Moments where all else fell away and all that was left was each other.

  Bartholomew, on the other hand, thought a society ball would be a fine place for her to publicly jilt him.

  As if she would. As if she could. He had become too important to her. It was taking every ounce of her will and courage to leave him behind in order to devote her life to improving the lives of others. She rubbed her arms, chilled at the thought. He had to cry off. Her first act as a free woman couldn’t be to ruin him. Not when he was finally coming back to life.

  She took a deep breath and made her way toward the stairs.

  Bubbling voices indicated he had already arrived, and that Katherine and her great-aunt were conversing with him in the front parlor.

  Daphne hurried down the stairs, but pulled up short when she reached the open doorway.

  Bartholomew was breathtaking. His eyes were the same crystalline blue, his brown hair the same soft mane, his cravat and clothing as tailored and impeccable as ever. What had changed was him. He no longer carried himself like a cautious, grief-stricken ex-soldier. He carried himself like the popular, self-assured rake he’d once been. The powerful, captivating man he still was.

  His confidence had returned. His arrogant swagger. His irresistible charm.

  The effect was devastatingly attractive.

  A flutter unfurled in her belly. This was how he’d earned his reputation. Not because he consciously set out to charm and seduce women, but because they couldn’t help but insert themselves in his path, hoping he might notice them even a fraction as intensely as they were enthralled by him.

  Elderly Mrs. Havens all but preened before him, her infectious giggles a trifle too loud, her unwavering gaze a trifle too melting.

  Even Katherine was toying unconsciously with a tendril of hair, her eyes on Bartholomew. Katherine had licked her lips no less than three times in the scant minutes since Daphne had appeared in the doorway.

  Heaven help her. Every woman at the Caxton crush would be drawn to him tonight.

  She wasn’t jealous, she reminded herself firmly. He was hers. If only for another week.

  Her stomach twisted at the thought.

  He glanced up toward the doorway. His blue eyes softened when he caught sight of her. “Daphne. You’ve always been pretty, but tonight you look stunning. I’ll be the envy of every gentleman when I escort you to the ball.”

  Her cheeks warmed, and her voice came out breathier than she’d intended. “Th-thank you.”

  He then proceeded to take Mrs. Havens’ arm, not Daphne’s.

  She forced her tense facial muscles to relax. He was escorting all three of them, so of course Katherine’s aunt took precedence. What Daphne hadn’t expected was that their brief exchange of pleasantries would be the only thought he spared for her. Not when she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

  She hadn’t even cared about balls until the opportunity for Bartholomew to escort her arose. Then her mind bubbled over with gowns and curling tongs and long, slow dances. She’d wanted to impress him. She’d wanted tonight to be special. She’d wanted to feel like a real fiancée.

  Instead, Bartholomew sat next to Mrs. Havens in the carriage. He set about charming her with amusing anecdotes during the entire ride, delighting Katherine and annoying Daphne, though she tried valiantly not to show her hurt at being forgotten.

  Her fingernails bit into her palms. She’d been ignored and insignificant her entire life. She should have known better than to let herself believe she mattered to him. He hadn’t even bothered pretending.

  If he intended to spend their last evening out without so much as light conversation, much less illicit kisses, perhaps that was for the best. It was high time she got used to living without him.

  When they arrived at
the Caxtons’, he all but vanished the moment their names were read. Other than catching the occasional glimpse of the back of his head as he talked with this marchioness or that countess, Daphne might not have realized they were under the same roof at all.

  He certainly seemed to have more interest in flattering crafty-eyed widows than he did in the woman he was allegedly courting.

  Katherine, for her part, didn’t notice or care. She knew every person who crossed her path, and effortlessly amused the sillier chits and fops, and then held the investors and collectors captive with more serious talk before she was whisked off to dance with a seemingly endless stream of eligible gentlemen.

  Daphne’s dance card was nowhere near that full, but whenever she did get a nibble, Katherine cheerfully took Daphne’s place watching over her great-aunt, so that Daphne could enjoy a set or two swirling about the Caxtons’ magnificent ballroom.

  Except she couldn’t enjoy it. Not when the one man who interested her was too interested in everyone else.

  He was currently surrounded by a flock of fawning debutantes, each with more feathers protruding from her hair than the last. Daphne clenched her teeth. Every one of those girls was precisely the sort of mindless, adoring sycophant that she had long suspected men tended to marry. The kind of woman Daphne wasn’t.

  She forced herself to look away. If that was the sort of young lady Bartholomew preferred, then he was welcome to them.

  No matter how wonderful her husband, no matter how deeply she fell in love, she would never be the sort of person who could spend the rest of her life worshipping a man. She couldn’t devote herself to one person when she could be devoting herself to many.

  Then again, she supposed a fair number of rakes shared that same thought process before—and after—they took a wife. Society marriages were strategic alliances, not love matches. Rare was the man who preferred his wife’s bed to that of his mistress.

  That kind of husband would certainly be much less demanding on a wife’s time. Cocksure and arrogant, he’d flit from one bed to another, swaggering home only when it was time to beget an heir.

  She used to think she’d prefer a husband like that.

  She now knew she’d kill him.

  That was her problem, she realized. She wasn’t just being forced to accept his divided attentions. He wasn’t hers at all. And he didn’t seem the least bothered.

  How much worse would it be if their betrothal was real, but his affection was not? She was right to walk away. The worst kind of marriage wasn’t a husband who wished to spend too much time with her. It would be a husband that didn’t care about her at all. Spending the rest of her days with someone who was indifferent toward her would be a loneliness more empty and endless than any she’d ever known.

  Her focus should remain on the people who did need her. Not tangle up her heart fantasizing about what could never be. She wasn’t fated for romance. Her fate was to be left behind. Forgotten.

  Bartholomew had kissed her and swaggered away, with no more thought to it than that. Why should she expect any different? He had always been a rake. A temporary pleasure. The flirtatious women hanging on his arms knew precisely what they were—and weren’t—getting.

  So did Daphne. Their relationship was in name only. Bartholomew wanted her chaperoned in order to keep his mouth at a safe distance, but that didn’t mean his lips weren’t busy elsewhere.

  They had every right to be. Daphne held no true claim on the gentleman or his kisses. No right to his time after their betrothal had come to an end.

  But, oh, she wished she did.

  What’s more, she wished he were the one wondering what she was thinking and doing. She wished he were less confident about her interest. Uncertain he could steal a kiss even if there were no chaperonage for thirty miles. She wanted him to want her.

  But she knew she couldn’t keep him.

  When the music ended, she pasted a smile on her face before returning to Katherine and Mrs. Havens. She would pretend she was enjoying the evening, not yearning for a man she shouldn’t desire.

  Katherine frowned. “What’s amiss? Have you the indigestion?”

  Daphne stopped trying to smile. She gestured at the crowded ballroom. “I think I’m just over warm.”

  “Care to take a turn in the garden?” came a low, warm voice from behind her.

  Bartholomew. She spun to face him, not at all sure whether she were more likely to strike him for his flirtations or throw herself into his arms and beg to be kissed. Either way, she shouldn’t be trusted alone with him.

  “Why, yes.” Mrs. Havens beamed at him. “I would love a turn in the garden.”

  “Not you, Aunt. He means Daphne.” Katherine motioned for them to go on ahead. “Come, Aunt. Let’s find the ratafia.”

  Daphne scowled at their backs. Traitors.

  Bartholomew’s brow creased. “Are you all right?”

  “Splendid,” she bit out in a tone that probably indicated she was anything but.

  He was wise enough not to question her further.

  Instead, he escorted her toward the folding screens separating the garden entrance from the rear of the ballroom. He bid a footman to fetch her pelisse. Once she’d donned it, he allowed her to take no more than a few steps onto the stone path before coming to a halt.

  She squeezed his arm. “What is it?”

  He frowned. “We’re the only ones out here.”

  “It’s February,” she reminded him with a smile.

  “It’s foolish. I wish to speak with you, but…” He tried to pivot her toward the ballroom. “We must return to the party.”

  She refused to budge. “Speak with me about what?”

  He glanced over his shoulder.

  The folding screen blocked most of the light from the chandeliers, but the music from the orchestra wafted past as if carried on the wind. The garden was vacant and devoid of flowers, but its very emptiness gave them privacy. A thin sliver of moon was the only light they needed.

  He took her hands. “I spoke to Lady Sheffield about your projects.”

  Daphne’s stomach tightened. She supposed it was inevitable that her life’s work would become gossip fodder at tea parties. She just wished it didn’t make her feel so alone. “You spoke to whom?”

  “The Duke of Ravenwood’s sister.” He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. “You might recall her from Miss Ross’s party. She’s Lord Sheffield’s new viscountess. She more commonly can be found managing households and holiday fêtes, so when I mentioned your concerns for the miners and the weavers—”

  She jerked her fingers out of his grasp. “I don’t need you or anyone else mocking my beliefs or thinking me mad for trying to help. Many of these people will die without outside aid. The working conditions are deplorable and their living conditions horrid.”

  “She wants to help.”

  Daphne’s body froze. “What?”

  “Lady Amelia is formidably efficient. She dubbed herself lieutenant of your army. Your people definitely want her on their side.”

  “My people?” Daphne echoed faintly, her mind spinning. She had an army on her side? And a viscountess?

  He took her hands again, his expression earnest. “The other women I’ve spoken to seem divided in ways one might anticipate. The debutantes probably won’t be interested in helping other people until they have secured their own futures. Ladies married to titled husbands already have more than enough tasks to keep them occupied. But there are quite a few dowagers and even a handful of widows who—”

  “That’s what you’ve been doing?” she blurted. Her cheeks heated. “All those women you were speaking to…”

  “I presumed ladies would be more easily persuaded to charity work than their husbands, but I intend to convince the men next. I’m still a member of several gentlemen’s clubs and, believe what you like, they are not solely dens of iniquity and vice.”

  She gazed up at him, speechless. Guilt flooded her. Despite their past weeks together,
she hadn’t hesitated to discount Bartholomew as a rake and a ne’er-do-well, when in fact he’d been crusading for her.

  “Men may be less likely to dedicate their spare time toward volunteer work, but the more affluent might be free with their pocketbooks.” His eyes sparkled as he outlined his scheme. “With Lady Amelia’s organizational talent and a reasonable amount of initial funding, all of your projects can be priorities.”

  He hadn’t forgotten her. Quite the opposite. He had aligned himself with her causes publicly and personally, in front of all the people whose opinions he valued. She stared at her feet. Bartholomew wasn’t the shallow one.

  She was.

  Who cared if it was her project or her ideas? Wasn’t forward progress the important part? Making a change in people’s lives? Was there any reason she shouldn’t allow others to help, if they were so inclined? Like Katherine always said, the more the merrier…

  Daphne’s throat grew thick. Her best friend had offered to help in any way. Perhaps she could! Being patroness of an antiquities museum didn’t mean Katherine wouldn’t be just as valuable of an asset when it came to Daphne’s many causes. Katherine knew everyone and they all loved her back. She’d be an exceptional lieutenant to add to the army. New recruits would flock to her flame.

  Then Lady Amelia Sheffield could organize the troops, and Daphne would pick the battles.

  Bartholomew was already their major… and Daphne’s saving grace.

  “Thank you.” She threw her arms around his neck and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Thank you for helping me when I was too blind to help myself.”

  “Your servant,” he said gruffly. But he didn’t let her go.

  She rested the side of her face against his chest. His strong arms wrapped tightly about her, enveloping her in the heat of his embrace.

  Contentment flooded her. As long as she was in his arms, nothing else mattered. He’d keep her warm. He’d keep her safe. He’d do everything within his power to keep her happy. She snuggled closer, listening for the beat of his heart. He was perfect. No wonder she couldn’t bear to let him go.