by Darcy Burke
“My love…” Bartholomew felt like his whole world was crumbling to ash. Just like the betrothal contracts in the fire. He had hoped to woo her with romance. With pragmatism. Anything but cold disdain. “Please listen to me. You hold my heart in your hands.”
Her eyes were wild, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You were still wearing your boots and your tailcoat. Give me one good reason why anyone would ‘make love’ in the privacy of a home, wearing boots and a tailcoat.”
“You can’t possibly understand.” His neck heated. “My leg—”
She shoved his chest. “Your leg isn’t everything, Bartholomew! Your leg isn’t anything.”
He shook his head. “You have no idea how unsightly—”
“You have no idea how much I don’t care.” She swept up his cravat and tossed it at his chest. “Your leg is not you. Do you know how often I think about your prosthesis? Never. That’s how often. I don’t worry about it, I don’t think about it, I don’t care one button.” She grabbed her stays up off the floor. “How often do you think about my spectacles? Do you fret when I misplace them and cannot read a word?”
“What?” He blinked at the sudden change in topic. “I don’t really notice when you’re wearing them or not. Your spectacles have nothing to do with who you are.”
“Neither does your prosthesis. The End.” She made a disgusted expression and turned toward the exit. “There are people out there with real problems. You’re no longer one of them.”
He clenched his cravat in his fist. “Tip-top condition, am I? Take a closer look. I’m scarcely fine.” He bounced his ruined knee to make the ankle joint clap. “If I keep myself hidden, it’s for a reason.”
Daphne unlocked the parlor door, then cast a long, pensive glance at him over her shoulder. “The only person who thinks you a lesser man is you.” Her lips tightened into a line. “Until you can give a woman everything you still are… Well. I wouldn’t sign any more betrothal contracts.”
She quit the room without another word.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was raining by the time Bartholomew pulled his landau up in front of his town house.
A footman ran over with an umbrella to walk him into the warm safety of his home, but Bartholomew waved him away. He didn’t want to go back inside his dismal, lonely town house. He didn’t want to leave his carriage, or come in out of the rain. The only thing he wanted was Daphne.
His fingers clenched. How could she dare compare a missing leg to something as trivial as a pair of spectacles?
He leaned his head against the wall of the landau and sighed. He knew precisely why Daphne would compare a prosthesis to reading spectacles. It wasn’t that she considered the two to be of the same relative importance. It was that she didn’t see either condition as particularly important in the first place.
It was more than important. It had destroyed his entire life.
Daphne might not find an amputated leg diminishing in any way, but the rest of Bartholomew’s peers certainly did. He was a mockery. A cripple. A mere shadow of the man he’d once been. No one could look at him the same way. Even his servants…
He frowned. It was true that he hadn’t allowed his valet to assist him since returning from war. His pride couldn’t allow himself to be pitied or coddled. But had he prevented Fitz from pitying and coddling his disfigured master? Or had he simply prevented his talented valet from performing the normal duties for which any given valet was employed?
Captain Steele hadn’t treated Bartholomew like an invalid, but rather, an adversary. He was given no special consideration for having lost a leg, nor treated any differently than the other suitors. When he’d chosen not to go riding with the others, the pirate had mocked Bartholomew’s apparent lack of camaraderie, not his impaired horsemanship.
Chauncey Whitfield hadn’t acted like Bartholomew was worthless. He’d asked for advice on sparring partners and fighting stances, and reminisced about the old legends. Fairfax, Lambley, Xavier, Sarah… None of them had treated Bartholomew any differently than they’d ever done.
His mother, of course, had made a dramatic fuss over her son’s unfortunate condition. But when had she not? Even when Bartholomew and Edmund had been in the peak of youth and health, she’d been convinced her lads were one cough away from consumption and too delicate to withstand the tamest physical activities.
Before, it hadn’t been true. And now?
He would never have his leg back, but the rest of his body was as strong or stronger than it had ever been. Whether or not that was enough, it was all he had. His half-leg was unsightly, the strapped-on prosthesis a poor substitute… But there was really only one opinion that mattered.
Daphne’s.
She might say his disability never so much as crossed her mind—it might even be true!—but there was a wide gulf between the theoretical and the practical. It was easy enough to discount his false leg when it was out of sight beneath layers of clothing. It was another thing entirely to expect Daphne to wish to make love to a man whose leg ended just below the knee.
It was worse than unsightly. It would extinguish her ardor completely.
His prosthesis was the best money could buy, but the leather straps affixing it in place and the hand-carved toes at the end of its foot wouldn’t fool a woman looking at him from less than an arm’s length away.
Even without her spectacles.
If Daphne truly didn’t care… then neither should he. Not if it was keeping them apart.
He loved her. If there was still a chance, however slight, that he could convince her to let him at least try to win her heart. He couldn’t allow the opportunity to pass him by. He had to talk to her.
Bartholomew collected the reins and set his landau on the path back to the Ross town house. The rain slowed his progress. By the time he arrived, his gut churned with more nerves than the first time he’d stepped foot onto a live battlefield.
What could he possibly say that would prove his sincerity? What would he do if she tossed him out, again? If he was unable to change her mind?
He hesitated before alighting from the carriage, torn between racing through the rain and risking a fall, or taking it slow and arriving upon her doorstep a bedraggled mess. Ruining what little was left of his looks wouldn’t do much to endear her to his cause.
Hurrying as fast as he dared, he exited the landau and made his way to the front door, where he made good use of the knocker, just as he had done a few hours earlier.
This time, however, the butler was less keen to allow him entry.
Rain trickled down Bartholomew’s neck. “I’m here to see Miss Vaughan, please.”
The butler stared back at him impassively.
Perhaps the downpour had left him all but unrecognizable. He searched his waistcoat pocket for a dry calling card and came up empty. “I’m—”
“Please wait here, Major Blackpool.” The butler turned and disappeared around the corner.
“Thank you,” Bartholomew said to the empty entryway.
He checked the floor to see if his clothes were leaking rainwater all over the entryway, but aside from his bootprints, all was clear. He was not as wet as he’d feared, based on the butler’s obvious displeasure at his presence.
He consulted his pocket watch and grimaced at the hour. Of course. It was much too late to pay a social call. But the damage was done, and now that he was here—
“Major Blackpool.” The female voice that greeted him belonged not to Daphne, but to her friend, Miss Ross… whose always-merry face was unnervingly devoid of both smiles and laughter. “What brings you here?”
“Miss Ross.” He bowed with as much grace as he could. “I was hoping to have a word with Miss Vaughan.”
She pursed her lips. “You cannot. Good night.”
“Wait,” he stammered. “Will you tell her I’ll call tomorrow? What time do you recommend I stop by?”
“I don’t. She’s leaving at dawn and must keep to a tight schedule.”
He gaped at her. “Leaving? Where is she going?”
Miss Ross shrugged. “If Daphne wished for you to know, you already would.”
True. He tried not to lose heart. “It’s imperative that I see her.”
“And she has said that it is imperative that you do not.” Miss Ross’s brown eyes filled with pity.
Not for his missing leg, he realized, but for his missing heart. Somehow that hurt even worse.
“I’m sorry, Major Blackpool. Whatever has occurred between you and Daphne… She’s asleep now, and I shan’t wake her.”
He nodded and bowed, for there was nothing else to do and nothing else to say, and stepped back out into the rain. The door closed smartly behind him.
Halfway down the front walk, however, he wondered if all was truly lost. Was Daphne asleep? Or might there still be a few moments to convince her to stay? He squinted at the upper story.
During their drive in Hyde Park, she’d mentioned that her guest chamber was the one with a balcony overlooking the park. Perhaps he could walk that direction, try to see if any candles still flickered in her windows. If not, he would have to go home. But if she were still awake… He couldn’t risk losing her.
Ducking his face to the wind and rain, he followed the street to the corner and crossed over to the park. At this hour—and in this weather—the park was deserted. More than one balcony faced this direction, but the room Daphne was in was obvious.
She was just now rising from what was likely some sort of desk and crossing over to the window. He cupped a hand over his eyes to watch. She closed the curtains without so much as pausing.
He let out his breath. Of course she hadn’t seen him. It was so dark outside that the only image she would’ve seen in the window was the reflection of the fire in the hearth and the flames of her candles. Which were disappearing one by one before his eyes.
His fingers curled in determination. If he waited any longer, she would be asleep. But how was he supposed to get to her?
He scanned the facade. If rain wasn’t sleeting down, turning Mayfair into a slick, mud-splattered danger zone, he’d dash across the street and toss pebbles at her window until she was forced to acknowledge him.
If the trees were perhaps slightly closer to the wrought iron balconies—or if he had worn climbing shoes, and was possessed of two working ankles and two sturdy feet—he’d scale the slippery looking tree closest to her window and vault onto her balcony with acrobatic grace and romantic charm.
Unfortunately, he possessed none of those elements. And he was going to have to do it anyway.
He shoved his sodden hair out of his eyes and marched through the biting rain, across the street and over the lawn to the base of the most adjacent tree. Bless London for being overrun with tall, slender, multi-branched trees perfectly suited for climbing.
Presuming that the climber was not a one-legged ex-rake…
He reached the base of the tree and shook the rain from his face. The moon was dim. Winter still stalked the city. The spidery branches held few leaves to block dirt and rain from falling into his eyes. He would have to keep them shut. His hands would be occupied with the critical task of not tumbling to the hard, wet ground.
“You can do this,” he muttered beneath his breath. “You’re a soldier. It’s just a tree.”
It might as well have been a mountain.
He closed his eyes against the onslaught of rain and stretched for the tallest branch he could close his fingers around.
The bark was familiar beneath his palms, its overlapping patches slick and smooth. He’d climbed thousands of these trees in his youth. He and Edmund had been monkeys, competing to see who could reach the highest peak or lying in wait to leap upon one’s unsuspecting twin as he chanced to pass beneath.
In those days, the sensation of the thin sheets of bark crumbling beneath his palms had been no cause for concern. Just part of the adventure.
Tonight, the slightest misstep would prove disastrous.
Not misstep, Bartholomew reminded himself dryly. Since his footing could not be trusted, the trick would be not stepping at all. He would have to pull himself up on the strength of his arms alone.
He gripped the branches as firmly as he could and hoisted his body up off the ground. What would happen if he fell? What would he do if he climbed so high and landed so hard that he knocked his false leg clean off? He would die, that’s what he’d do.
But he had no choice. Daphne was worth it.
At home, his strengthening exercises had included half an hour of using his arms to pull his chin level with a horizontal iron bar. Unlike branches, the iron bar was sturdy and dry, with neither nettles nor peeling scraps of bark slipping beneath his palms. The bedchamber floor was never more than a mere foot away.
Without allowing time to second-guess himself, he wrapped his thighs around the trunk of the tree and reached for the next highest branches. This hoist required more maneuvering, as he needed to work his leg up and over the previous branches in order to slowly rise to the next. And the next.
And the next.
Breathing hard, he pulled himself higher, bit by bit. The branches grew thinner and closer together, making each hard-won inch harder and harder to achieve.
He squinted to check his progress. Close. And yet too far. His heart sank. He was high enough in the tree that he could now look down onto the balcony. Sort of. Leaping onto its slick, narrow tile would have been straightforward.
If he could release his stranglehold on the branches and trust his feet to launch him in the correct direction. He couldn’t. But he hadn’t come this far just to slink home without trying. He wouldn’t forgive himself if Daphne left London without ever knowing how much she meant to him.
He took a deep breath and jumped.
He even almost made it.
His fingers grappled for the vertical iron bars of the balustrade. The weight of his body and the momentum from springing through the air made it impossible to hold tight. His fists slid down with lightning speed, burning his palms. He pulled up short when the base of his hands slammed against the sharp edge of the tiles. His body swung forward from the momentum, weakening his grip.
He dangled there for a moment, to catch his breath. If he let himself fall now, he would almost certainly catch one of his legs beneath him at a truly unpleasant angle.
The only direction to go was up.
He bent an elbow, shifting his balance to one side and then swung his weight toward the other. He released his free hand briefly in order to grasp the iron bar a few inches higher up. Using his body like a pendulum, he repeated the process, letting each alternating fist move a few inches higher.
At last, the edge of his hand brushed the top of the railing. With a grunt, he hauled himself up and over, and landed on his good foot in an awkward crouch.
He was half tempted to lay flat upon the tile, rain and all, until his heart stopped pounding and his icy fingers regained feeling.
No such luck. The curtain swung open.
Daphne stared out at him from the other side of the glass with her lips parted and her eyes wide with shock.
He lifted his aching arm and waved.
She unlatched the window and pushed it open wide. “Are you mad? What on earth… How on earth?”
He gripped the sill and hiked himself into her bedchamber. “Hullo, Daphne. Did I wake you?”
She pushed at his chest, her hands shaking. “What were you thinking?”
“That I wanted to see you. I did attempt more traditional methods first, but Miss Ross implied you would never again receive my call, and since you were leaving at first light, I figured—”
“—that you would scale a town house in the middle of the night and pop in via my balcony?” She shoved her head out the window and paled. Her breath was ragged. She closed the glass violently and sagged against it. Her eyes flashed. “It’s raining, you daft man. What if the railing had given way? What if you’d fallen?”
&nb
sp; “I’ve already fallen,” he said quietly. “I’m in love with you, Daphne. You’re my first thought every morning and my last thought every night. Marry me. Please.”
She pushed away from the window, away from him. “I told you—”
He stepped in her path. “You think I haven’t given myself to you, not completely. That I’m afraid to bare my body. Look at me, darling. I’m baring my soul. I give you everything I have.”
She peered up at him warily. It was all he could do not to pull her into his arms and kiss her. But he needed more than her kisses. He needed her trust. Her love.
Desperate, he stepped over beside the fire, to place himself fully in its light. “What do you see before you? A rakehell who cares naught for your feelings? Or do you see the man who once fancied himself more fashionable than Brummell, standing before you a sodden mess, just to speak with you? Just to beg you for your hand?”
She crossed her arms beneath the bodice of her nightrail, but her gaze tracked down his tattered finery, then back up to his eyes.
He yanked off his ruined cravat and tossed it to the floor. “Marry me.”
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
He shucked off his wet greatcoat, its tailored seams irreparably split and ragged. “Marry me.”
She shook her head.
As he unbuttoned his waistcoat, his fingers shook as much with nervousness as with fatigue from the strain he’d put them through. If only she could see what she was doing to him. What he was doing for her. He tossed the waistcoat aside. “Marry me.”
She shook her head.
He crossed his arms at his waist and peeled his white linen undershirt up and over his head, the once-billowing material wet from rain and exertion. His chest was bare, the muscle flecked with scars. “Marry me.”
She stared at him in determined silence.
He yanked the chair out from her escritoire and sank down onto it to tug off his boots and stockings. First, the good foot. Then the false one. He steeled himself for her reaction. “Marry me.”
