by Darcy Burke
“Not that.” She gave his shoulder a teasing push.
He caught her hand. His heart was beating far too fiercely. She must feel its pulse beneath her palm, racing faster than any stallion.
He hadn’t spoken to any young ladies since returning from war. Hadn’t teased or been teased. Hadn’t been shoved playfully without a thought to whether his sensibilities—or his balance—could withstand physical interplay.
In so many long months, it was the first time he’d been treated like he was… normal.
Of course he knew how deeply he’d missed it. But he hadn’t realized until right this moment that he could have that feeling again. Of belonging, of bantering, of being himself.
He dropped her hand. “Yes, I remember your room. Wheat farmers. Weavers. Miners. Workhouses. Orphans. Apothecaries. Particularly in the areas of training and methodology.”
Her beautiful mouth fell open. “You listened to what I said? And memorized my causes?”
“I recalled, not memorized. Soldiers are trained to remember things.” He gave her a devilish smile. “Shall I tell you more about the contents of your wardrobe?”
Her cheeks flushed. “I already know what’s in my wardrobe. I don’t know what’s in your mind. Those are the things I most care about. What are your opinions on the topics you recall?”
He dipped his head. “Honestly?”
She leaned forward, nodding as if eager to hear his insights and hidden depths.
He gave her the truth. “I don’t have any opinions.”
Not in the way she meant. He had plenty of opinions, one of which was: you can’t save everyone, no matter how hard you try. He’d sacrificed enough. ’Twould be foolish to add hopeless causes to the mix.
She stepped back, disappointed. “You said you read the newspapers!”
He shrugged, knowing it would vex her. She shouldn’t have illusions about him. He was here to help her escape her guardian, not become a white knight. “Reading newspapers doesn’t mean I’m a ‘crusader.’ It means I’m bored. And literate.”
Her eyes flashed. “If you’re bored, it’s your own fault. Interesting people are never bored.”
“I wasn’t always a wretched bore.” He had barely had time to sleep. Wine. Women. Waltzing. Gaming. Pugilism. Adventure. The army was only more intense. Troops. Weapons. Enemy soldiers. Stratagems. “My days were far too busy for boredom to set in. Or to develop strong opinions about weavers and wheat farmers.”
Her lips pursed as she considered him. “What fills your days now?”
“Nothing,” he said simply. Although he found her idealism endearing, he did not share it. The war had taught him that some fights just couldn’t be won. “After what I’ve been through, I quite prefer it.”
“But the farmers—”
“You may keep your causes, my dear.” He brandished his wooden leg with a self-mocking smile. “I’m done crusading.”
EIGHT
The following morning, Daphne’s eyes flung open in a panic. Sun trickled in around the shutters. She closed her eyes as quickly and as tightly as she could, but it was too late. Saturday was here. The changes would begin.
Today she was officially out of mourning. She could wear colors again. Dance at assemblies. Wed the suitor of her guardian’s choosing. Dread made her fingers shake and her limbs leaden.
She rolled over and buried her face in her pillow. Lucky her. She didn’t want to do any of those things. There was no one she wished to wed. And she would mourn the loss of her father the rest of her life. No matter what color she happened to be wearing. They might not have had an idyllic relationship, but at least she’d had someone who loved her. She might not be so fortunate ever again.
Her cheeks heated as she thought back to the previous day. She certainly hadn’t felt her life was empty when Bartholomew was around.
Whenever he was near, his presence muddled her brain. Made her think of foolish things, like the width of his shoulders or the strong line of his jaw.
Every time he kissed her hand, heat spread through her. When he’d lifted her from the horse, letting her body slide down his in a most shocking and brazen manner… her bones had nearly melted. If he had let go of her just then, she would surely have crumpled to his feet. And wrapped her arms about him.
She had never doubted his reputation as a rake. She now wondered if all he had to do was stand still and let the women throw themselves at him. Her inability to control her body’s reaction to his touch was infuriating. And more than a little intriguing.
What might it be like to be the sort of woman who gave in to such desires? A woman unafraid to throw her reputation to the wind in exchange for a night of passion in his muscular arms? She clutched a pillow to her chest.
Making love with Bartholomew would be incredible, she had no doubt. He would be the sort of lover who would give a woman his complete attention. Make her feel wanted. Needed.
And then he would leave before morning, never to be heard from again.
With a sigh, she shoved Bartholomew and certain heartbreak out of her mind and pushed herself out of bed. There was no time to be maudlin. She had to focus.
She washed her face and her teeth, then settled down before her escritoire. Today was full of risk. Tomorrow, even more uncertain. She had best attend to as much charity work as possible while she still could.
It might be her last chance to leave a mark before she faded into obscurity. Into a loveless marriage. Or Bedlam.
She pushed aside a tall stack of correspondence and perched at the edge of her chair. After luncheon, she’d begged off from playing Charades (Mr. Fairfax’s idea) or battledore and shuttlecock (Mr. Whitfield’s) with the excuse of a megrim. Instead, she’d stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, penning every last outstanding letter until her eyes and fingers ached.
Now all that was left was forming a plan.
Her gaze wandered over the clippings covering her walls. She wasn’t nearly as efficient solving problems as she was finding them. Some days she wished she were a dozen Daphnes, so that she could divvy up her endless chores amongst her many selves and finally be able to cross some things off her lists.
Papa, she knew, would have scolded her much the same way she’d scolded Bartholomew for being bored. Daphne could never do the right thing. If she felt overwhelmed and overworked, ’twas her own fault.
He saw no need to save the world. ’Twas an impossible task. If she focused on her parish, on her neighbors and the other inhabitants of Maidstone, she could make a direct and appreciable difference in the lives of those around her. Just as Papa had done for thirty years.
But she didn’t want to limit herself to Maidstone. Maidstone was fine. They didn’t need her.
Was there truly that much honor in polishing the windows at All Saints Church or helping a happy, well-adjusted parishioner become even happier? Here, she was forgettable. Outside of Kent, she could make a difference.
The people who needed the most help were the people she couldn’t reach out and touch. The people no one reached out to. The ones whose livelihoods had been ripped away by drought or disease or dangerous working conditions. The people for whom the slightest act of kindness might be the balm that let them live another day.
Only if she was free to do so.
Which meant she could never marry. Not when there were so many worthier subjects to command her attention. Who might give her theirs. And definitely not any gentleman Captain Steele had chosen as a potential suitor.
As for Bartholomew… Handsome, roguish, unforgettable Bartholomew. He was the worst of all possible choices. Thank God their betrothal was only make-believe.
Presuming they could convince Captain Steele to sign the contract.
Daphne dipped her quill into the inkwell and wrote Priorities across a sheet of parchment. She bent her head over the sheet of parchment and began organizing her projects by level of urgency.
In the event that her time became severely limited due to some m
ishap or another, she could devote what little she had to whichever cause was the most important at that moment.
She rose from her escritoire only when her maid entered the chamber with buckets of steaming water and all but forced Daphne to ready herself to face the day.
Esther refused to even consider allowing her mistress to don yet another gray and black ensemble, and fairly crowed with glee when she managed to talk Daphne into pale blue instead. A few ringlets later, Daphne was pronounced fit for joining the others at breakfast.
If they were still at the table. A glance at the clock indicated the hour was later than she realized. An unsurprising circumstance that transpired more often than not these days. Sometimes, she worked straight through lunch and only recognized the grumble of her stomach when she was too lightheaded to hold her pen properly.
Rather like now.
She slipped from her chamber and headed toward the dining room. The low rumble of conversation indicated the men had not yet quit the table. Her footsteps slowed.
What if Cousin Steele had already promised her to someone other than Bartholomew? Her hunger pangs vanished. She would not be able to eat until she was confident she would not wake up to find herself the new Mrs. Whitfield or Mrs. Fairfax in a few weeks’ time.
She paused to listen just out of sight from the open doorway.
“—wonder when the weather will be warm enough to take a dip in the river. I do miss swimming.”
Daphne’s shoulders relaxed slightly. That voice belonged to Mr. Whitfield, and the subject was certainly safe enough.
“I wager it won’t be properly warm until May or June, but why wait? They say the Russians go straight from the sauna to the snow. What’s a cold river compared to snow?”
And that was Mr. Fairfax. Always primed to race pell-mell into one reckless scrape or another. Daphne narrowed her eyes. When he was younger, Bartholomew used to do the same. It was no surprise at all when he ran off to join the army. She half expected him to disappear again the next time adventure knocked.
“What’s a cold river?” came Mr. Whitfield’s incredulous voice. “It’s ague, is what it is, and I’ve a match next week. Got to be in top form if I’m to best Quinton. Ever spar with that one, Blackpool?”
“My brother did,” came Bartholomew’s low, smooth voice.
“Your brother! Win or lose?”
“You have to ask?”
Mr. Whitfield’s warm chuckle drifted out into the corridor. “I should say not. One glance tells me you’re in better form than anyone at Jackson’s, so I can quite imagine the damage a brother of yours might have done.”
As could Daphne. Bartholomew and Edmund had been more than twins. Their own parents had difficulty telling their lads apart. Perhaps it was for that very reason that the brothers became so competitive, each of them fighting to be stronger, faster, distinguishable from the other. She sighed. That struggle was finally over.
Daphne lay the back of her head against the wallpaper and closed her eyes. Poor Tolly. He’d never intended to win like this.
A strong hand clamped down on her shoulder.
Her eyes flew open. She immediately closed them again. And pretended she was invisible. Perhaps if she didn’t acknowledge her guardian had just caught her eavesdropping on guests in her own dining room, she could melt through the wainscoting and disappear.
“Not in the mood for kippers, are we?” Captain Steele didn’t bother to hide the amusement in his voice. “Table too crowded for you, love?”
NINE
Breakfast had been excruciating. Bartholomew struggled to keep his mask in place.
He’d managed to exchange a few light words about his brother without his face or voice betraying just how completely his world had shattered when he’d lost his twin, but the memories were flooding back and it was becoming hard to breathe.
He pushed to his feet, careful not to upset his dining chair with his false leg. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
Before he could do more than stand, voices sounded in the corridor. Daphne all but stumbled into the dining room, propelled forward by none other than her guardian, Captain Steele.
She looked tired and furious. And absolutely beautiful. Red-gold ringlets framed her ivory face. Her cheeks were a light pink. Her slender frame was all the more becoming draped in light blue linen instead of charcoal gray.
Then again, now that he’d had his hands at her waist and felt her body slide against his, it wouldn’t matter if she wrapped herself in brown paper. Her curves had been burned into his mind. He couldn’t look at her without wanting to draw her back into his embrace.
Whitfield and Fairfax nearly crashed into each other as they scrambled to their feet. “Miss Vaughan! Good morning!”
Bartholomew’s jaw set. They looked foolish. He would not lower himself to their level…no matter how pleased he might be to see Daphne.
“You look lovely,” Whitfield stammered, gazing at her as if he’d just noticed her beauty. “Powder blue is quite a departure from…”
Daphne’s eyes darkened, rather than brightened. Bartholomew understood perfectly. Being out of mourning didn’t mean one had stopped mourning. But it did mean one had ceased being treated that way.
She smiled tightly and followed the footman to the empty chair at Bartholomew’s side. “Please. Sit. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“Happily.” Fairfax’s eyes twinkled as he arched a brow at Bartholomew. “I’m afraid Blackpool was just leaving, though. Isn’t that what you said, Major?”
Bartholomew slanted him a flat look and sat back down. All of them had finished breakfast an hour ago. Their plates had been long cleared, and only their tea or coffee cups remained.
Fairfax doubtlessly wished Bartholomew out of the picture. Today was the day the marriage contract was to be signed. Only one of them would win Daphne’s hand.
It had better be Bartholomew.
Captain Steele slid into a chair at the head of the table. Within seconds, the footman reappeared with a fresh tray from which he began to serve the new arrivals.
Steele ate with gusto. Daphne did not.
After watching her flick her toast about her plate a few times, Bartholomew murmured under his breath, “Your heart is your own, no matter what color you’re wearing.”
She shot him a quick, grateful glance and nodded firmly. “You’re right.”
He smiled. “That doesn’t mean you ought—”
“What’s that?” Fairfax lifted his brows, his eyes mischievous. “I can’t quite hear you all the way across this not-particularly-wide table. ’Tis almost as if you’re whispering on purpose, just to keep—”
The footman interrupted this sally with another tray. Delivered straight to Mr. Fairfax. Instead of more foodstuffs, however, the otherwise empty tray bore only a folded missive.
Frowning, Fairfax broke the seal and scanned the letter’s contents. His face was pale when he faced the others. “I’m afraid I’ve been called away. I must leave at once.”
Frowning, Bartholomew felt no pleasure at this sudden departure. Fairfax’s sister was expecting Bartholomew’s niece or nephew, but the baby wasn’t due for another month and a half. His fingers turned to ice at the thought of Sarah or the baby in danger. “Is it…?”
“No,” Fairfax said quickly. He rose shakily. “Not yet. But I must be off. My apologies, all. Until next time.”
He rushed from the dining room before anyone could so much as bid him farewell.
The remaining four looked perhaps less baffled than the situation warranted. Daphne was still toying with a crust of toast as if she hadn’t registered Fairfax’s departure at all. Captain Steele was singlehandedly demolishing every other edible item on the table. And Whitfield kept vacillating between long, mooning gazes in Daphne’s direction and more surreptitious glances toward Captain Steele.
Bartholomew’s eyes narrowed. From the looks of it, Whitfield might offer for Daphne right here at the breakfast table, without any eye to pr
opriety or common sense. Or was that the wiser move? Now that both Lambley and Fairfax were out of the way, ’twas simply a question of which would-be suitor stated his case first.
Whitfield opened his mouth.
Bartholomew leapt to his feet. “Steele, may I speak with you privately?”
The pirate arched a thick black eyebrow as he chewed a mouthful of food. “At this precise moment?”
“If you’d be so kind.” Bartholomew’s fingers brushed against Daphne’s shoulder to indicate it was time. He had promised to help, and he intended to keep his word. Whitfield was a good lad, but he wasn’t the right man for Daphne. She deserved a better partner. A love match.
Captain Steele set down his fork. “Very well, then. Come to my office. Shall we meet alone, or should Miss Vaughan join us?”
The fire in Daphne’s eyes at the reference to “his office” indicated there was no chance she’d stay away. She rose to her feet. “I’ll join you in Father’s study.”
The pirate led the way, his swagger and amused grin indicating he enjoyed having others dangle upon his strings.
When they reached the vicar’s study, Captain Steele settled himself behind the desk and stroked the salt-and-pepper stubble along his scarred jaw. “Now, then. How may I be of service?”
“Enough with the games.” Bartholomew wished he had a sword. Captain Steele was a hard man. He would respect decisiveness, not sycophancy. Bartholomew drew himself to his full height and glared down at the pirate. “You want Daphne off your hands. I wish to oblige. Let’s settle this and move on.”
Steele’s eyes danced merrily. “Well, that’s certainly romantic. Minus the compliments and flowers and avowals of love, of course, but since my own entanglements tend more toward wrapping an arm around the closest tavern wench, I must and do commend your efforts. I also award you special consideration for making the trek all the way from London to Kent to press your case.”
