She removed her glasses and shoved them deep into her reticule. Then she gave him a smile, though he had to say hers was tremulous. Insecure.
He supposed she was...and she had reason. She was in such pain...and he had to ponder why she did not mention their previous encounter. It was so long ago, however, how could she possibly remember him?
Well, by God, he remembered her!
That night they'd danced and laughed, embraced and kissed, she'd never told him her name. And he didn't notice the lack. Not then. They'd had a meeting of minds and spirits. After all, which poet asked, "what's in a name"?
A rose.
She was. That crown of rich mahogany hair. The sweet round face. Her chubby cheeks. Her lips, plump and kissable. What was a name when he saw in her all her essence? A naive sylph that his battle-weary body longed to be near. An exuberant fairy that buoyed his soul. For him that night, she was perfect. An elixir. An antidote. He'd come home from Spain for a few days to bid farewell to his ailing father—not to find the love of his life.
Not to discover an effervescent creature who chuckled at his jokes without regard to how loud she was. Not to find a young woman who spoke of her abilities at cards and dice. Not to discover a siren who could lock her gaze on his and in a moment, become as breathless and smitten as he was. She was the air of life...refreshing and vital. God knew, he'd needed to find her that night. For she was—he believed then as he did now once more—his perfect mate.
He had not communed with the truth of himself for many years. That night, he had.
This afternoon, he would once more. And he welcomed it whole-heartedly. He must. Because he was imperfect now. Used up. Prone to melancholy for those he’d lost. Because…
War warped a man.
It had him. He could be churlish and bitter. Moody and ungrateful. His mother had admonished him for it just the previous day. He'd apologized, facing his new duties as lord of the manor and reviling the years he'd wasted ripping men's bodies to pieces, interring them in unhallowed, hastily marked ground.
Over the eleven years in service, he'd changed. He wished to snap his fingers and become once more the young fellow who had marched away, the one who could laugh easily and enjoy the flight of a butterfly or trace the line of a shooting star.
But today, he had her to admire. Older, yes, she was. But none the worse for the time. In fact, she seemed...(he had to grin and hide it)...healthier. The fullness of her sapphire blue gown and pelisse told him she was robust and energetic. The angelic blue of her clear eyes, the taut perfection of her profile, the sprinkle of freckles upon her nose and her lithe limbs told him she was a lady who took to the sun with frequency.
Yet though he had strode with her in his arms to his coach and she pressed her face to his shoulder, she presented a mystery. Comforted by him, allowing the intimacy of embracing her and tending to her bare injured flesh, she gave no sign she recalled him.
She'd gotten to know him well six years ago. That night, he'd kissed her after they'd danced and escaped to the balcony. He'd tasted her lips. Teased her tongue. Known the scent of her skin. The passion of her heaving bosom and her artful fingertips in his hair. Oh yes, she'd worn a mask. So had he. All others, too. Forbidden to remove them by the host and hostess, she and he obeyed and pondered who each could be. But without the covering, he'd have known her as his heart's contentment.
"You are my Juliet," he'd chanced a guess that night after their lips met the first time.
She'd laughed, horror flashing across her angelic face, enchantment in her blue eyes. "Do you want us to be doomed, dear sir?"
"Never." He had drawn her against him. The move was forbidden for such new acquaintances, but she'd nestled closer. A debutante of the ton and yet, she allowed the advance. He knew why in that she understood their destiny for each other. Odd how he was a man of action, a leader of men into the jaws of death and yet...she drew him like a magnet and he had no explanation nor a cure for the delightful malady of her allure.
"You're in the army, aren't you?" she asked in the tone of a woman condemned.
"How did you know?"
She threaded her fingers through his hair—and he welcomed the tenderness of a woman's caress. "You have a scar on your chin and many more on your hands. Calluses too. They are such, I'd say you hold pistols and rifles. Bayonets, too."
"I do."
"You return," she said with despair in her lovely gaze. "When?"
"Day after tomorrow."
Her large blue eyes misted with tears.
"My darling, there is no time to sweep you in my arms and take you to Scotland."
She caught her breath. "Tomorrow is all we have."
He crushed her long fingers in his own. "Meet me. We will walk and talk."
"You'll buy me an ice."
"A castle. A kingdom. Anything you want!"
"You," she'd whispered.
He had lifted her hands and placed kisses in each palm.
But now here she was before him and as chance would have it, she was near him but in pain.
Odd how life turned the tide. When they'd met, he was the one in need of her. In the space of a few hours, she changed his perspective. Even though, the next day, she’d never appeared in Green Park.
Why she had failed to come, he could list a hundred reasons. She'd been too free with him. She regretted it. Feared him. He'd been too much the rogue. Scared her off. Shown her someone quite different than who he was. No well-bred lady would meet such a scoundrel in the park. Not even with an abigail. But he had hoped.
More than that, he'd vowed to find her again. He'd asked his friends their advice. Describing her beauty, he'd hoped for hundreds of referrals. He'd acquired a few. Five to be exact. He'd had the chance to trace each of them during the three occasions he'd obtained leave from his regiment. None of the ladies had been his mysterious lady love. Two had tried to lure him, in fact. But he found them wanting.
Foolish, he'd been to persist in his search. Foolish, he admitted he was to hope said lady might remember him or favor him with her attentions. Over time and desperate after two bouts of fever and a saber wound to his left calf, he'd grown morbid. He'd given up hope to find her.
If by fortuitous accident, she now faced him, he could understand why she could not readily bring herself to acknowledge that they had met. He'd give her that option. He'd give her anything in this world.
For what did the past matter? He had found her.
She was here with him.
And he had a second chance to learn her every secret—and—
This time, if she could care for him, he'd make her his own.
Chapter 4
Fifi silently rejoiced minutes later as Charlton's carriage turned into the circular drive of Courtland Hall. Charmed as she was by the earl, she needed to get away from him, his humor, his kindnesses, his carefree discussion of weather and weddings. Northington's and Esme's. Princess Charlotte's and Saxe-Cobourg's. How had she been so blind?
She gave a laugh at herself. Well, she was blind. In more ways than one!
Another coach had pulled up ahead of Charlton's and Fifi recognized the escutcheon on the door as that of the Earl of Seaford. Ivy and Grace Livingston were Seaford's twin daughters and good friends of hers and Mary's from their years away at Miss Shipley's finishing school. Ivy and Grace, plus Willa Sheffield, the earl of de Courcy's daughter, formed the core of a group who had comprised many more, including Esme. The others were wed long ago. Esme would soon be, day after tomorrow.
Fifi buttoned up her pelisse and brushed down her skirts, ready to greet her old friends and escape the lure of Charlton in all the fuss and bother of arrival. Her Aunt and Uncle Courtland would coo and exclaim about her own arrival and Mary's, too. There'd be much ado. When Fifi saw that her cousin Esme greeted them in the open door to the foyer, she girded herself for the fireworks. Esme was never one to stand back and let others take the stage.
"You will not move," Charlton told her as h
is groom opened the door of his coach. "I will assist you down and into the house."
"Oh, my lord, no." He might be the most tender man she'd ever met, but he was also very domineering. She could not let him win every debate. "Please do not trouble yourself."
"That will be my pleasure."
She could lose this argument.
"You are still in pain, aren't you?” he asked pointedly.
"I am."
“Ah.” He arched his brows, teasing her. “So you see, I am essential."
"How can I argue?" Smiling, she led him on and she mustn't.
Mary and Lord Bridges stepped out of the coach to greet those on the threshold. Mary's maid Welles, who always came along to the annual Frolic to serve both her mistress and Fifi, followed.
Next Charlton climbed out and drew Fifi ever so easily into his arms. When she would have stood, he whispered, "No," and marched into the foyer of the Hall as if she were his prize of war.
In a flurry of welcome, Fifi lost track of who knew whom. She did notice that Lord Courtland, her uncle, greeted Charlton as if he'd met him before. Had her aunt? Trepidation chilled her. She must speak to her aunt alone and learn if she had any knowledge of why her father disliked the earl's family.
All the while, Mary did the honors to give an account of how they'd met the men and how they had saved them on the road.
Lord Courtland was effusive in his praise for their rescue. "Shall I send my grooms to right the flyer?"
"Yes, sir," said Charlton. "They may need a wheelwright and a blacksmith to help repair the wreck."
Esme, glorious in a springtime confection of green and white, beamed at Fifi and took her hand. She bent near. "Delightful to have you with us. I'd like us to talk privately. Would you?"
"A fine idea. Later?"
Esme gave her a genuine smile.
Odd, but for the first time in her life, Fifi thought Esme was not pretending friendship. Perhaps Mary had the right of it when she said that Esme could be changed by true love. Fifi hoped that was what had happened to her cousin who was known among Miss Shipley's girls as proud and self-indulgent.
"Oh, Fifi!" Aunt Courtland cupped her cheek. "We must see to your recovery. All of you must have had a terrible fright. Do go right up to rest. You look quite ashen, my dear girl."
Lord Courtland summoned one of his footmen. "We'll have Thomas here carry her up and relieve you, Lord Charlton."
"Unnecessary, sir," said Charlton with ease. "The lady is secure in my embrace."
"But you must be tired," Fifi argued. In fact, he grinned at her. He was enjoying this and so was she!
A ghost of a smile curved his mouth. "Never. You are light as a bird."
At ten stone, Fifi could best a fat buzzard. She bit her lip to kill her laughter. "You are too kind."
Charlton turned to the footman assigned to assist him. "Thomas? Onward, man!"
Befuddled, Lord Courtland glanced from the earl to his niece and back again. "Carry on. Of course. We'll send Fifi's trunks up as soon as possible."
"Marvelous," Fifi chirped, hooking her arms more tightly around Charlton's neck. "Walk on, sir."
He bounded up the main staircase when her uncle called to him. "I say, Lord Charlton, shall I send for a surgeon?"
"No," both he and Fifi responded together.
Charlton faced his host. "I've examined Lady Fiona's ankle, sir, and she needs rest, a compress and ice."
"Ice!" Lady Courtland said. "Of course!"
"Perhaps, tea, too, Aunt?" Fifi asked over his shoulder as her chivalrous knight ascended the stairs. "And cakes?"
"You shall have it, dear girl. And you, Lord Charlton? May I send you tea as well?"
"Tea would be splendid, Lady Courtland." He did not stop but took the landing around as he winked at Fifi.
"Aunt?" Fifi called down. "Brandy is in order. For his lordship, you see."
Charlton chuckled. "Fine idea!"
"Certainly!" Lord Courtland added. "Should have said it myself. You shall have it!"
"Superb," Fifi and Charlton said together as he proceeded up the stairs and followed Thomas down the hall.
"Here we are, my lord." Thomas opened the door for them.
"Lovely, Thomas," Charlton said as he turned fully around to allow her to view her accommodations. "Any special requests, my lady?"
"None." Only to have your company for a bit longer.
His grey eyes melted into hers. Her entire body tingled that here was a man who did not berate her or dismiss her, but valued her.
"Thomas," he said, his gaze still on hers, "do bring lengths of cloth. I must wrap the lady's ankle in something more sturdy. Burlap or flannel. Whatever you have. That will be all. Until the refreshments arrive."
With that, the footman took his leave.
"I'd say this will be your chair." Charlton selected an overstuffed wing chair near the fireplace. There he set her down, plumped up a few cushions behind her and pulled close a hassock upon which he propped her injured foot.
She sighed into its sumptuous appointments and regarded him with a saucy tilt of her head. "What else will you command for me?"
He lifted her hand and placed his firm warm lips to her skin. "Say the word. Whatever you want is yours."
She grinned, and as if her look were wicked, he arched a brow.
Oh, the door did remain open. They were quite acceptable. But she must tell him to go. Then for the rest of this party, she must not seek his attention. Charlton was a name forbidden to her. And she knew not why. Her father was long dead. Her mother, long unmoored from her reason. Secrecy of past transgressions by her father was the family watchword. She had only one way to learn more.
It was a path forward into mystery and perhaps shame. Should she take it?
"You've been more than kind." She owed him that thanks at the very least.
“I must apologize for being curt with you.”
She waved that off. “I need no apology, good sir. I am quite certain I've caused you to regret the service of your embrace."
"Trust me, embracing you will never be a service."
His words burned a path to her soul. Her own words came forth, a whisper of forbidden desires. "You must not say such lovely things."
"I gaze at you and I can say no other." He stepped backward and inclined his head in deference. "I leave you to your unpacking and your rest. I return in a few minutes. Go nowhere without me."
His orders thrilled her. As long ago on that enchanted night, he was the epitome of her perfect man. She would refuse him nothing.
"I promise you I won't."
* * *
Outside Fiona's door, Thomas waited to show Charlton to his own room.
"If there is anything more I might get for you, my lord, do ring."
"I will, Thomas. Neither Lord Bridges nor I have brought valets with us, so we appreciate your attentions. As soon as my trunks are brought up, I will unpack myself. Thank you."
The man made for the door, but another footman arrived bearing the bottle of brandy that Fiona had asked for them.
"Shall I pour for you, my lord?"
"No. That will be all."
He deposited the bottle and four small glasses on a tall table. As he left, two more footmen arrived with his luggage.
Bridges knocked at the door.
"Come in!" Charlton waved to him to enter. "Do sit, if you wish."
His friend took a chair near the fire while Charlton began to pour. “Will you join me?”
But Bridges refused the glass. "None for me, thank you. Got Lady Fiona settled, did you?"
“I put her to a comfortable chair and propped her up with cushions.” He was in a quandary, disturbed at his own actions. Gruff with her at first, it was no surprise she wouldn’t remember him straight away. Still he was drawn to her strength and her pluck. She was as he remembered her...but somehow sadder. He wished to learn why. He smiled at his friend. “I warned her not to move until I returned. I also asked for sturdier
bandages with which to rewrap her ankle. I'll go back in a minute to do that. Luckily for her, her injury is minor. Ankle's sore now, but it will heal quickly if she's careful."
"Your efforts are appreciated, I'm certain," Bridges said with a wry grin.
"Hmm. By many. But for this lady?" Charlton winced as he took the opposite chair and a quick sip of his brandy. Why had she been so irritable toward him at first? Women liked him, usually upon sight. "I'd wager not in this decade."
"The battlefield teaches so many lessons."
"Charm is not among them." Charlton pursed his lips and nodded toward the two footmen. He disliked servants who gossiped and he gave them little information to spread wide.
"Glad to hear she is not badly injured."
"I hope not too." Charlton leaned toward him. "I was a bit of a prig, wasn't I?"
Bridges arched both brows. "Do you think?"
"No need to beard the goat. I was. And I did offer her an apology."
"Did you? Good of you. Did she accept?"
"She did. And you?" Charlton sat back, a grin on his face as he tipped his head. "You know Lady Mary well?"
"I did once."
"And wish to again."
Bridges smiled. "Obvious, is it?"
He lifted his glass toward his friend. "Like minds are not often discovered by accident in the middle of an abandoned road."
"I had no intention to become fast friends with her again. Not as we once were."
"Why not?"
Bridges hesitated. "My future is so uncertain."
"Surely the Corps is headed by men who understand the normal desire to marry."
"It wouldn't be fair to court any woman, not knowing what I must do or where I'll go." Bridges had explained to Charlton he had a choice to make and soon. Once the third son, he'd been sent to school to become a Royal Engineer and had served honorably and well for eleven years. But his two older brothers had died and now Bridges had inherited an estate. As head of a centuries' old barony, he should remain home to administer it. But to do that, he'd have to resign his commission. For a Royal Engineer to resign his commission was an unusual act. His years of training had been extensive and expensive. His years abroad had seen him in the thick of battles in Spain and France, Waterloo too at the end. Now that the wars were done and Bonaparte off to St. Helena, the Royal Engineers could be expected to serve abroad, mapping wilderness and building roads and bridges in the colonies.
Lady Fiona's Tall, Dark Folly: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 1 Page 4
