The Hero Least Likely

by Darcy Burke

  “You would have been the best thing to happen to the Egyptian Hall,” Daphne said staunchly. “It is his loss.”

  “Yes, well, there are no hard feelings.” Miss Ross lifted her chin. “All of these people are very special to me or to this city, and I’d be delighted to introduce you to any one of them. Just say the word.”

  Bartholomew kept mum. He was happy to stay in the shadows. The less attention, the better.

  “Kate!” Mrs. Havens all but bounded over, her clear blue eyes sparkling against the pale of her skin and the powdered white of her hair. “What a lovely gathering.” She glanced at Bartholomew and Daphne. “Are you two enjoying yourselves?”

  He smiled back at her. “How could we not, in company as delightful as yours?”

  “I see you don’t have any champagne, young man.” Mrs. Havens flagged down a footman. “Champagne for the gentleman, please. But just one. Moderation, not libation!”

  Bartholomew frowned and lifted a hand to forestall the footman. “None, actually. I no longer imbibe spirits. I thank you for your consideration, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Havens’ eyes widened in pleasure. “I’m very impressed. So many young men these days have little restraint. Oh, is that Lady Grenville? If you’ll excuse me, I must greet an old friend.”

  She was gone before anyone could reply.

  Miss Ross shook her head, laughing. “That was Aunt Havens. She’s three times my age and has twice the energy. I’ll introduce you when she flutters back by.”

  “I believe I did meet her.” Bartholomew darted a questioning glance toward Daphne. “A half hour ago, perhaps.”

  “Ah, well.” Miss Ross’s grin didn’t falter. “Don’t be offended if you meet her a few more times tonight. She has good days and forgetful days, but she’s the best aunt anyone could possibly—is that Mr. Godfrey? I’ll be back, darlings. He owns a shipping conglomerate I’ve an interest in, and I must speak with him about his experiences contracting with the East India Company.”

  In a blink, she was gone.

  “She’s going to be just like her aunt,” Daphne lamented, lifting the back of her hand to her forehead in mock dismay. “Two whirlwinds under one roof. Be prepared to turn down a lot of champagne this Season.”

  Bartholomew grinned before her words sank in. Her prediction was well meant, but flawed. He wouldn’t be around to turn down much more champagne. In a few weeks’ time, their fake betrothal would be over and Daphne would be gone. He would no longer have a reason to leave his home.

  “Major Blackpool?”

  A happy, smiling couple stepped out from the crowd. He smiled. It had been Lord and Lady Sheffield that Bartholomew had spotted across the room. Until her recent marriage, he’d known Lady Sheffield as Lady Amelia, sister to the Duke of Ravenwood, one of Bartholomew’s closest friends.

  “If only my brother were here,” Lady Amelia said now, clasping her hands in delight. “He was so pleased to hear you were out in Society again. You really should pay him a visit. Both of you.”

  Bartholomew shook his head fondly. The introductions hadn’t even been made, and already Ravenwood’s sister was organizing Daphne’s schedules. “Lord and Lady Sheffield, let me present my fiancée, Miss Daphne Vaughan. Daphne, Lord Sheffield is a very respectable viscount who wed the extremely managing elder sister of my friend, the Duke of Ravenwood.”

  Lady Amelia whacked him on the shoulder with a painted fan. “Lies! And if not, then they’re secrets. Miss Vaughan, I’ll have you know I’m not the least bit…” She trailed off, frowning up toward the chandeliers.

  “Now you’ve done it,” Lord Sheffield groaned. “That’s the expression she makes when she’s accessing her memory pantry.”

  Bartholomew blinked. “Her what?”

  “Vaughan of the Maidstone Vaughans,” Lady Amelia breathed. “Your father was vicar there for many years. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Daphne’s eyes widened. “How did you…”

  “She just does.” Lord Sheffield lifted his wife’s fingers to his lips. “I don’t think I’m exaggerating when I say she has the greatest mind in all of England.”

  “And she’s not afraid to use it,” Bartholomew put in with a smile. “There was the time when Ravenwood—”

  “Now, now, we don’t want to bore Miss Vaughan with stories from the past.” Lady Amelia pointed her fan toward Daphne. “Drop by for tea anytime you please.”

  “She’ll probably have it ready and waiting when you do.” Lord Sheffield cast his wife a sly grin. “She has a way of… anticipating needs. Don’t you, my dear?”

  Lady Amelia flushed scarlet and tugged him toward the crowd. “Benedict, if you’d still like me to—”

  “Have you ever seen such a happy couple?” Bartholomew shook his head. “And to think, just last year, Sheffield was infamous for his rigid schedule. From eight in the morning until eight at night, he locked himself in his office and forbade all visitors. Then from eight at night until eight in the morning…” Bartholomew coughed into his hand. “He, er, attended to other matters.”

  Daphne’s lip curled. “He wasted twelve hours a day on pleasuring?”

  “Not… every day.” Bartholomew should have known she wouldn’t find the humor. “I’m sure he slept. Occasionally.”

  Her eyes rolled heavenward. “I cannot stand the frivolousness of the ton.”

  “Sheffield’s not frivolous,” he protested. Just because Daphne spent every waking moment with her charity work didn’t mean everyone else was idle. She didn’t even know the man. “Didn’t you just hear me say he worked for twelve straight hours, every day without fail? How many men do you know that do that?”

  “I allow that taking infrequent breaks is important for one’s well-being, but you cannot expect me to condone the behavior or the character of a man who dedicates half of every day to self-serving debauchery.”

  “Perhaps you should keep your prejudices to yourself.” His tone hardened despite himself. “If you don’t want your hallowed peasants to be dismissed unfairly, you shouldn’t make sweeping judgments against upper crust friends who might have helped you.”

  Her mouth turned downward. “Shouldn’t I? How many of your friends will be at the demonstration next weekend?”

  “At the… what?”

  “Precisely. I doubt they know or care about merchants gathering on Gracechurch Street to discuss overthrowing the income tax laws. There have only been hundreds of pamphlets posted up and down Cheapside.”

  “Let me guess.” He rubbed his temples. “I suppose you plan to attend?”

  Her nose lifted. “Of course I will. I’m circulating a petition.”

  He sighed. She was so focused on others, she was blind to her own needs.

  “This is why you’re not married,” he muttered.

  Daphne’s cheeks flushed. “Even if I were the most sought-after debutante in England, I couldn’t marry. There are too many people counting on my help. My personal desires are irrelevant.”

  Before he could reply, loud clapping drew their attention toward the pianoforte.

  “I’ve had another request for dancing,” Miss Ross called out. “With a room so full of talent, there must be dozens of accomplished ladies who can wring music out of this ancient thing.”

  Several young ladies giggled and stepped forward.

  “That, for example.” Daphne leaned toward Bartholomew. “Do you consider competency at the pianoforte a legitimate female accomplishment?”

  He shrugged. “I see your point. Why should the achievement be limited only to females?”

  Daphne’s lips pursed. “Don’t be obtuse on purpose.”

  “Why not?” he demanded. “You’re being obtuse on accident, so I figure we both might as well get angry enough to make it a good fight.”

  Lambley stepped out of the crowd and bowed toward Daphne. “I promised you the first dance. Is it still open?”

  She arched a brow at Bartholomew as if to say, What was that about no one wishi
ng to marry me? Her chin lifted defiantly as she placed her hand into Lambley’s and allowed the duke to twirl her into the crowd.

  Bartholomew’s fists clenched. He wasn’t jealous, of course. He couldn’t be. Daphne was his fiancée, not Lambley’s… for the next few weeks, anyway.

  Besides, Bartholomew couldn’t dance. Probably. He might be able to if he worked at it hard enough, but it wasn’t worth the risk of public humiliation if he fell.

  He missed it, though. Not just dancing. Music.

  That’s why he’d ordered the pianoforte in his parlor. He’d never entertained in his town house—well, not more than one person at a time—so there’d been no reason to invest in such an instrument before his confinement.

  After the accident, banging at the keys had given him something to do in the early days when he wasn’t weeping or looking for things to break. When he’d given up whisky, he’d discovered he actually had some talent. Deciphering sheet music and memorizing foreign melodies had been a welcome respite from the agony of his endless stretches and exercises.

  To him, skill at the pianoforte wasn’t a female accomplishment. It was an accomplishment. Full stop.

  Particularly for an ex-soldier who’d had to drag himself out of the darkness note by painstaking note.

  But he’d be damned if he plunked out a waltz in front of all and sundry, just so Lambley could hold Bartholomew’s fiancée and swirl her about the dance floor in ways Bartholomew would never be able to do again.

  He forced himself to look away from Daphne. Away from the crowd. Now everyone was dancing, save for a few young bucks here or there who couldn’t tear themselves away from their champagne glasses or the biscuits on the refreshment table.

  And him, of course. He was still in the corner, in the shadows. All of the other men were strong enough, whole enough, to sweep Daphne into their arms waltz after waltz, and dance until the sun rose.

  Bartholomew was just broken enough to let her go.

  SIXTEEN

  Daphne twirled about the crowded parlor in the arms of a duke, but Bartholomew was the only man she could think about. Her chest tightened with self-recrimination. She should not have left him like that. She should not have left him at all.

  He wasn’t likely to understand her passion for championing the invisible class of people High Society never even thought about, but had she truly expected to change his priorities and his worldview overnight? Why should anyone? But their useless argument wasn’t why she was so disappointed in herself.

  She couldn’t help wishing she was in Bartholomew’s arms instead of Lambley’s.

  Foolish, of course. Bartholomew didn’t want her. She was a temporary fiancée who would be out of his life in less than a month. She had intended to be distant with him in order to make parting easier. If they found each other vexing, it would be easier to say goodbye.

  Except it wasn’t working. The only reason she found him vexing was because she could not quit him from her mind. She had even begun to dream about him at night. Every night. In her dreams, they didn’t have to say goodbye. They were too busy kissing to say anything at all.

  The unbidden image sent a shiver down her spine. She missed a step and inadvertently trod upon the Duke of Lambley’s toes. Her cheeks flushed.

  The duke’s quick blue eyes flashed with chagrin. “It only now occurs to me that I’ve never seen you dance. Forgive me for not inquiring if you had permission to waltz, or even knew how.”

  Permission? Daphne smiled weakly. Wonderful. Something else she hadn’t considered. Katherine had first butted against the various rules of Almack’s patronesses and Polite Society so long ago, Daphne had forgotten them completely. She probably embarrassed Bartholomew every time he escorted her in public.

  Unlike Katherine, Daphne hadn’t had a formal come-out. This was her first visit to the city. There was much she didn’t know. Would never know. She couldn’t fit into London life even if she wanted to. She was precisely the green rustic they likely all thought she was.

  That she knew how to dance at all was also Katherine’s doing. Whenever she’d visited Maidstone, Katherine had always dropped by the vicarage with amusing anecdotes about some exploit or another. That she’d taught Daphne to waltz was less surprising than the idea of boisterous Katherine paying attention to a dancing master in the first place.

  “’Twas kind of you to stand up with me,” she murmured to the duke. Her response didn’t address his implied question, but then again, it was too late to worry about permission. “I don’t often attend dinner parties or soirées.”

  His smile was droll. “I noticed. Eligible gentlemen have long despaired of catching your eye, much less your heart.”

  Daphne swallowed. Eligible gentlemen, like him? Or did he mean gentlemen of her acquaintance in general.

  It was true that she didn’t often attend events of any kind. It was further true that if she had attended said parties, she had done so under duress and likely bore a countenance so vexed it would have frightened away even a duke.

  If someone had warned her at the time that her obvious disdain for the interests of those around her would give her a reputation for being cold and impossible to please, she wouldn’t have cared a button. Those weren’t the opinions that mattered. Then or now.

  Except… She couldn’t stop herself from seeking out glimpses of Bartholomew. Or notice all the other young ladies who were doing the same. Even the gentlemen couldn’t help from going out of their way to have a word with him, and they all laughed heartily at whatever witticisms he said in reply.

  He was handsome and popular and charming and competitive and everything that she’d never wanted, all wrapped into one gorgeous package.

  There was nothing he hadn’t done. No horse he hadn’t raced, no pugilist he hadn’t boxed, and no heart he hadn’t won. The men wanted to dress like him and the women wished he’d take their dresses off. He knew everyone there was to know, and they all considered themselves the richer for it. He was made for London.

  And the only reason he was here today was because of her.

  The moment she cried off, he’d go back to the shadows, back to his town house. Back to his memories.

  This time, with scandal attached to his name. Because of her. Her throat tightened with guilt.

  “You’ve gone awfully serious,” Lambley said as the music came to an end. “Is everything all right?”

  “Everything is splendid. Thank you for the lovely dance. I must get back to my fiancé.” She curtseyed and hurried away, eager to return to Bartholomew. If they both had to be at this party, she wished to spend it at his side.

  Or in his arms.

  The more she tried not to think about how it might feel to be held, to be kissed, to be wanted, the harder it was to resist the temptation to find out firsthand. Their betrothal might be false, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t share a true embrace.

  No reason except that if she dared to let her heart get involved, she’d be tempted to stay. To burrow in his arms, in his bed, and beg him never to let her go. To be the first person who chose to stay. Who chose her.

  She came up behind him as he was speaking to a ruddy-faced gentleman.

  “—as smart as she is beautiful,” Bartholomew was saying. “I am the happiest of men.”

  A wave of pleasure flushed her cheeks. Until she remembered he was only acting a part. Then again, their scheme only required him to act betrothed, not besotted. If Bartholomew was saying nice things about her, it was because he wished to. Because he was nice. Not because she deserved it.

  He’d gone so far above and beyond the initial favor she’d asked of him that she would never be able to repay this debt. She had been so desperate to deflect her guardian’s nefarious plans, she hadn’t given much thought to the false betrothal’s effect on Bartholomew at all.

  Worse, whenever he was within sight, she was finding it harder and harder to remember the betrothal was false. She wanted him to see all the good works she was tryin
g to do and conclude that she, too, was a good person. She wanted him to like her. More than that, she wanted him to miss her when she was gone. She would certainly miss him.

  “I doubt a dandified rake would make anyone the happiest of women,” the man chuckled. “I’ve got fifty quid down at White’s that says even a peg-leg like you will be on to greener pastures by spring.”

  Daphne’s jaw fell open. Outrage flooded her system, electrifying her nerves and freezing her in place.

  “On the contrary,” Bartholomew replied evenly, as if he deflected these sort of comments every day.

  She swallowed. Perhaps he did.

  “A man in love spends extra blunt on a prosthesis, not a pegged leg. That way, the leg-shackle won’t slide off.” Bartholomew gestured toward his false leg, his tone light. “I’m afraid this rake is a reformed man.”

  “More like a deformed one,” the man said with a laugh. “Maybe she’s the one in search of greener pastures. Even a vicar’s daughter can do better than—”

  Daphne darted forward and slid her hand around Bartholomew’s upper arm. His muscles were tight, as if he were poised to fight. If he wished to plant this knave a facer, she wouldn’t stop him. She lifted her chin. “There is no better man than Bartholomew.”

  “Darling.” Bartholomew pressed his lips to the top of her head. “I’d introduce you, but this ‘gentleman’ was just leaving.”

  The man’s eyes widened at the obvious cut. A sneer curved his lips. “Have it your way, Blackpool. You’ll be tripling my fifty quid.”

  He stalked away before anyone could reply further.

  Daphne’s mouth tightened. She clutched Bartholomew’s arm a little tighter. “Who was that odious blackguard?”

  “Phineas Mapleton.” Bartholomew’s hands were curved into fists. He visibly tried to calm himself down. “The worst part about this whole charade is knowing it will line his pockets the moment you cry off.”

  No, Daphne realized, her stomach sinking. For Bartholomew, the worst part of this whole charade was every single moment of it. She just hadn’t seen it until now.